Impossible
by InvisibleBlade
Summary: Sherlock had always been one big impossibility to John but this really did take the biscuit. This time Sherlock is the one taking the moral high ground and John is the one who has no heart. Except that isn't true. He has a heart and that heart is Sherlock. If he lost him because of this then his heart would gone forever and that scares the hell out of him. Johnlock.Mystrade. Mpreg.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own**

**A/N: So this came about when I watched the hound of the Baskerville for the billionth time. (I'm kind of obsessed with Sherlock) and when Stapleton said " Listen: if you can imagine it, someone is probably doing it somewhere. Of _course_ they are." I then saw a tumblr post with Sherlock actually eating so the entire Sherlock fandom went about thinking he was pregnant. The two ideas clicked and hey presto – this is what you get. I really am sorry about the results.**

**Warning : Mpreg.**

**Pairings: Eventual Johnlock and Mystrade**

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The Beast was closing in on him. His breath came out in short, sharp spurts, mingling with the nerve breaking snarls of the gigantic hound that he was trapped in a room with.

John Watson was a soldier.

Even soldiers get scared.

And currently John Watson was petrified.

His heart was pounding so hard it was threatening to leap from out of his chest. His palms were sweaty and his entire body was trembling as he pressed himself against the wall in a small terrified ball.

When his phone began to ring his heart quite literally stopped but when he saw that the caller ID was Sherlock he felt himself calm down slightly. The deep baritone voice pulled him under a blanket of safety from the moment he heard it. His breathing was still shallow but now with the world's only consulting detective on the other end of the line he felt himself slide into a more rational way of thinking. Sherlock would be able to help him. He would know what to do. He wouldn't let the beast hurt him. Sherlock kept him talking, kept him sane when he was quite certain his sanity was starting to slip with each passing second.

Then with a sudden flash the lights flickered back on and something started moving towards him. It's not a hound or a beast of any sort. It's Sherlock. John had never found himself so glad to see the man in his entire time of knowing him.

The detective is staring at him curiously with his alien cobalt eyes. It looks as though he's studying John which is probably most likely. Sherlock is constantly studying the world around him. He's like a small child who is constantly asking questions about the universe.. The army doctor wondered what Sherlock saw when he gazed upon him: An old, retired and beaten down man who was far past his prime was the most likely option as that was what he saw himself as when he looked in a mirror.

"Are you alright?" The question is so soft it takes a few seconds for John to realize what the question was. The younger man is bending down now and placing a hand on John's shoulder gently. He felt his eyes widen dramatically as he was taken over by his bewilderment. Where was the beast … how? What? … "John-"Sherlock said his name, anxiety dripping from his tongue.

"Jesus Christ –"John muttered, grabbing the bars and pulling himself to his feet. He quickly pocketed his phone away and hurried out of the cage that he'd been forced to hide in. He turned back around to face Sherlock, still panic stricken and breathless from his ordeal. His eyes surveyed the entire lab that they were in but they found no signs of a creature. "It must –" He felt his throat tighten as his voice became unnaturally high pitched. "Did – D - did you see it?" He questioned. "You must have!"

Sherlock seemed unnerved and for some reason he looked like he was feeling guilty, but that was ridiculous. John had known Sherlock long enough to know that the detective was incapable of feeling most things and guilt fell under the category of most things. When Sherlock reached out a hand in an attempt to calm him he immediately flinched away. "It's alright. It's ok now." Sherlock reassured him but it did nothing to stop John's terror. In fact it just simply increased it.

"No it's not! It's not okay! I saw it! I was wrong!" He practically screamed at Sherlock. By now John was becoming frantic and on the very cusp of becoming hysterical. He found it ironic that Sherlock had been in the exact same position only hours before and John had dismissed it as an illusion. God how wrong he had been.

Sherlock stood there, looking on at John with interest. "Well let's not jump to conclusions."

"What?" John asked his breathing beginning to level out.

"What did you see?" Sherlock's lips are twitching at the corners and he's wearing the face that John positively hates: the face that screams I know something that you don't and you're going to have to drag it out of me so I can show off to the world like the amazing genius I am.

John scrunched his eyes shut tightly. What had he seen? A hound, a beast, but was there more to it? There had to be, didn't there? "I told you. I saw the hound." He muttered.

"Huge red eyes?" Sherlock questioned.

"Yes." John shuddered. The blood red eyes still sank like daggers into his mind.

"Glowing?" His flatmate raised an eyebrow.

John nodded, "Yeah."

"No."

That reply had been a little unexpected to say the last. John knew what he had seen. The hound had been glowing , sticking out like a sore thumb in the pitch black darkness.

"No?"

"I made up the bit about the glowing. You saw what you expected to see because I told you. You have been drugged. We have all been drugged."

"Drugged?" John wasn't sure if he should feel relieved because there wasn't a gigantic, man eating hound on the loose or whether he should feel even more scared than before. "Drugged by who?" He scratched his head.

"Drugged by whom." Sherlock corrected him, rolling his eyes.

"Right yes, sorry." John mumbled.

At that exact moment the lights turned off and the two baker street boys were lost to the darkness once again. John jumped out of his skin and a small yelp came from his throat. He grabbed onto something warm and solid and closed his eyes, trying to rid himself of the image of a beast waiting to jump them and rip them to shreds. What was wrong with him? Why was it that the bravery that he had carried out in Afghanistan was suddenly lost on him?

_' You're a coward John Watson. A coward. Open your eyes. NOW! '_

"Erm – John." Sherlock's voice startled him.

Opening his eyes he gazed up the younger man. Even in the darkness he could still see the awkwardness plastered on Sherlock's face and it took him far too long to realize the source of Sherlock's awkwardness. "Oh god, I'm sorry." He apologized as he peeled himself off of Sherlock. "What's wrong with me?" He asked the question again but this time the words found their way out into the open.

Sherlock reached out and gripped his shoulder tightly. "Listen to me John. Nothing is wrong with you. Someone is messing with your mind. Someone is messing with both our minds. Now take a deep breath. Everything is going to be ok."

John did as Sherlock told him, taking a deep and staggering breath. "Now what do we do?" He murmured under his breath.

"Hang on. I'm thinking." Sherlock took a step back and held up a hand.

John was jumpy and nervous, and then there were the sounds. He strained his ears to try and depict what they were. It sounded like footsteps, not of a beast but of a man.

"Sherlock – "The other man's name came out distorted on the tip of John's tongue.

"Not now John. I'm thinking." Sherlock replied, clearly trapped in the vast place that was his 'mind palace.'

The footsteps were becoming louder and louder but John didn't have much time to contemplate them as he felt something sharp prick at his neck. He gasped and reached a hand upwards, pulling out the needle that had pricked his skin. " Sher –" He groaned as his legs gave way beneath him. He tried to fight it, he really did, but the darkness closed in on him and he was taken from reality into unconsciousness.

The last thing he was conscious of seeing was Sherlock slumping besides him, his eyes wild with terror and his pupils blown by whatever drug had been administered into their systems.

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	2. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER : I do not own**

**Warnings : Mpreg, awkwardness between our boys, and a brief mention of a suicide at the end of the chapter. **

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Sherlock Holmes was not a man used to the world of sleep. He sees little point in it: It wastes time, it takes what control over his mind that he has away from him, and it is to put it is simply in the words of the worlds' only consulting detective, boring. However he's not invincible, he's not a robot, and as much as Sherlock hates to admit it, he is a human being.

The human condition had always infuriated him. If you didn't eat your body becomes useless and weak, if you didn't sleep you become fatigued, and Sherlock often forgot to do both of those things. However not eating and not sleeping was in turn excellent for brain work and he was usually able to keep himself distracted from his hunger and his tiredness long enough to solve a case. He would then retreat to the sofa, collapse in a heap and sleep for a few hours, nothing more. As for food, John usually forced him to eat small morsels, but his flatmate held no power over when he decided to get some shut eye.

He would always get a good telling off from John when he neglected his body and when he did finally sleep it was almost always on the sofa. To which the older man would comment "Is terrible for his back and will come to haunt him in later life."

So saying that he was a little shocked to find himself splayed out on a bed was more than an understatement. His confusion was doubled when he realized that it wasn't even the bed that had been assigned to him. It felt too – lived in and then there was the smell. It wasn't an unpleasant smell but it was still a surprise to smell it in such close proximity and in such a strong form. It was the sweet, minty but musk tinged scent that belonged to John. It didn't take long for Sherlock to piece together the fact that he was lying on the army doctor's bed. How had he gotten here? He blinked away the remaining sleep and contemplated the question. There was something bothering him further – something big – where was John?

Something stirred from close by and brushed across his crotch. He shivered in repulsion and tried to wriggle away from whatever had just touched him, but as he glanced down he couldn't help the smile wriggling across his lips when he saw what the ' thing ' was. John was curled in a ball on the bottom of the bed with his face practically nuzzled into Sherlock's lower half. "Well this is awkward." He muttered, trying to remove himself from the sleeping man. He was only glad that both of them were fully dressed. It would have only increased the awkwardness of their current situation if they were in their pj's or god forbid – naked. Not that he himself slept naked but who knew what John did. Sherlock didn't ask those sort of questions neither did he sought out to deduce the answers to them. As prying as he was John was the one person who he tried to give a little privacy.

Said man woke with a start much to Sherlock's embarrassment. "Sher –lock?" The way John said his name was a clear question that screamed 'what the hell is going on here?'

"Morning." Sherlock greeted him, smiling mildly at the man who was still partly covering his lap. He was at quite a loss as to what else he could possibly say.

John blinked and shook his head. "What – what's going on?"

"You're currently on my lap." Sherlock pointed out in disdain. "This as horrible as it might seem is far from our largest problem. "John jumped, reared back and almost toppled off the end of the bed as he finally seemed to take in what was going on. Snorting the detective shifted so he was sat upright, leaning against the headboard. "Really John, there's no need to look so alarmed. Now, would you calm down?"

John swallowed but nodded. "Ok – so how?" His brow creased. "How the hell did we end up like this exactly?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out." The brunette sighed heavily.

A few minutes passed without either John or Sherlock saying anything. It was John who broke it. "Anything oh mighty genius?"

Sherlock growled and threw his head back in frustration. "Nothing." His face creased in confusion. "I can't remember a thing – "

"Me neither." John groaned, moving so he was in a sitting position also.

"Hardly surprising. Normal human memory is affected by the realm of such things as sleep. It is far more worrying that I, a man with a higher intellect than you other people have been affected also." Sherlock said in his usual dismissive tone.

"Other people." John hummed, "Yes, I forgot that my mind is inferior to yours." And with that said he got up and started padding towards the door. "I'm going to take a shower." He mumbled before leaving.

Sherlock couldn't help but ask one question in his mind 'A bit not good?'

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Later that day life at 221B Baker street had return to relatively normal – well as normal as life in the flat ever got. John was sat re-reading the hobbit intently and sipping at a steaming hot cup of tea whilst trying his best to ignore the fact that he had woken up strewn over Sherlock.

The detective on the other hand was pacing, running his hands through his hair, looking even more erratic and maddened that usual. "Think John!" He exclaimed. "We have lost exactly two days of memory. There have been no cases in which case I would have become bored. But I don't remember being bored. My mind feels stimulated and there's something else too that's bothering me – something big – something particularly strange." He was shaking now - something that John was beginning to worry about. He had never seen the detective this worked up before.

"Sherlock –"He tried but was almost immediately interrupted.

"It's got to be right under our noses! Somewhere – "

"Sherlock!" He yelled a little louder than he had first intended.

Sherlock whipped his head around to face John. "Yes?"

"Please can you just sit down for one minute? You'll figure something out. You always do. You don't have to work it out right now though."

With a childish whine Sherlock stretched himself over the sofa, crossing his arms over his chest and folding in on his knees.

Neither man seemed to notice the news headline on the TV buzzing in the background about a certain Henry Knight committing suicide because of a supposed hound sighting , for if they had the reasons for waking up in the same bed together would have probably been far clearer.

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	3. Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER : I do not own.**

**Warnings: Mpreg, and Sherlock being Sherlock.**

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Exactly two weeks had passed since the little incident that had found Sherlock in John's bed. Neither man had spoken much about it but the army doctor could tell that Sherlock had been almost constantly thinking about it since that very morning. Since there'd been no cases which he assumed was the reason to why he was so distracted because there was no mistaking the sudden distance Sherlock was putting between himself and the rest of the world so he was definitely distracted by something. He was quieter than usual and it was driving John up the wall. The silence, though not unusual, was unnerving and for some reason unknown spurred worry in John's gut.

He didn't speak, he didn't move, he didn't even pick up his violin – which was a shame because his music was self-composed and would have probably given John a clue to what was going on with him as the beautiful notes plucked on the violin almost always entailed the emotions the younger man couldn't convey openly.

It wouldn't have been too bad if his flatmate had taken up his usual habits of experimenting with vile chemicals and gruesome body parts but he hadn't. ( God, had it really gotten to the stage that he wished Sherlock was acting like a mad scientist, dissecting bodies, boiling eyeballs in the kettle, and carrying out all sorts of disgusting and stomach churning experiments?)

Sherlock had taken to just lying on the sofa in a curled up ball so still that if it wasn't for the slight movement of his chest he looked like he was dead. His facial expression was impassive but now and then his lips would curl up and three tiny lines would embed themselves into his brow so there was clearly something going on within the great expanses of his mind.

"Listen Sherlock –"John's voice broke and he didn't know why. Perhaps it's because this is the first proper time he's addressed Sherlock in a while or perhaps it's because he's scared for the emotional well-being of his friend. It wasn't healthy not to talk about things, to just bottle them up, and bottling up was most definitely what Sherlock was good at. One day John feared that his cork screw would come undone and he'd simply explode in outrage – something he had witnessed a multiple of times but only on small scales. Sherlock had never gone this long without talking before and in theory that meant a bigger explosion was brewing. Sherlock twisted his head around. His lips parted as though he wanted to say something but he didn't. No words passed his lips. It didn't look as though he wanted to not reply but much more like he actually couldn't form one. "I'm worried about you." John said softly. "Please just talk to me."

"Don't."

John blinked in surprise. He hadn't been expecting an answer.

"I'm sorry?" He questioned in confusion.

"I'm sure your ears are still quite capable of doing their job, John. I said don't. There is no need to worry about me. I am fine." Despite the coldness in the detectives words John couldn't help but detect the slight uncertainty to them.

Sherlock jerked unexpectedly, leaping to his feet in one brisk movement. It was the most movement he had taken part in two weeks and it almost seemed forced. It was clear that he wasn't moving out of choice but because John had interrupted his train of thought. He then proceeded to his room. His gait to his room wasn't exactly an urgency filled run but neither was it a slow walk which only made John worry further.

For the time that he had lived with Sherlock there had only been a few times that Sherlock had gone into his room out of choice and that was always to fetch his nicotine patches to be able to think more clearly on a case. But there had been the no clear sign that Sherlock would be coming out of his room any time soon. The sound of the lock bolting was only a confirmation to John's thoughts.

_What do I do now?_ He asked himself. _What the hell do I do?_

He blinked when he realized that he'd fished out his phone from his trouser pocket and was dialing Mycroft's number.

_Sherlock is going to hate me for consulting his brother._

_But he's not talking to me._

_I'm worried. _

_Why am I so worried?_

_Because something is bothering Sherlock and in turn that is bothering me._

_Why does it bother me? _

_Because maybe I care for the man in a far deeper concept than I have ever cared for anyone in your life._

_Mycroft will know how to handle this whole situation … won't he?_

_He'd be able to but his mind at rest._

"John, how may I be of assistance?"

The army doctor didn't reply for lack of what to say.

"John?" The voice tried again.

He swallowed down hard and forced his lips to move in a hushed whisper. "It's Sherlock. I'm worried. Can we meet?"

"Of course. I'll send a car for you right away." Came the curt reply.

And that was the end of their conversation. The line cut dead.

_Well here goes nothing. _

John sighed, pushed himself to his feet, and grabbed his coat. "I'm just going out!" He yelled despite the fact he knew that Sherlock wasn't going to respond.

_I hope that Mycroft has the solution to all of this … _He mused as the ominous black car pulled up outside the flat on record time.

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	4. Chapter 4

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own.**

**Warning: Mpreg. **

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Sherlock was perched on the end of his bed; long fingers clasped together, lanky legs stretching out in front of him, head resting on his joined hands. He heard John's yell but only part of his mind registered his flatmates voice and the words were lost on him. For words are boring things and if it were of great importance John would come and fetch him.

He found himself relieved when he noted that the footsteps from outside his bedroom door weren't edging closer but were instead descending down the steps of the flat. Good – peace and quiet – time to think.

Thinking was all Sherlock ever did. His brain was a combustion of images, thoughts, disjointed letters and meaningless names. As of late it had become increasingly difficult for Sherlock to think. (Not that he would ever admit that to John or anybody else.)

There was something definitely amiss with himself it seemed. Sherlock was very acute to his own body despite ignoring its needs on a daily basis, and right now something wasn't right. He felt as though there was a war going on within his body and thus his mind was being pulled down into the battle – metaphorically speaking of course.

Maybe he was sick …

In which case he should probably talk to John. Why hadn't he? What was stopping him?

A sound passed the detectives lips much akin to a frightened puppy whimpering. He unclasped his hands and readjusted his position on the bed so that he was now lying back in the comfort of his covers. He can remember the last time he was ill. He was eight with chicken pox. It had just been him and Mycroft in the Holmes manor house and his big brother had looked after him. ( If we were to delve deeper into this dear readers it may explain a lot about why the two Holmes boys have a mutual hatred for each other. However that is another story so I shall continue ...)

Sherlock hadn't had the need for anyone to take care of him in a long time, but right now, in this exact moment he felt - what was the word? – Vulnerable. Yes that was an acceptable descriptive word to how he was feeling: vulnerable like a new born babe.

He hated that feeling with a passion.

In fact he hated feeling anything with a passion.

Emotions eat away at you; they make you weak, and are only found on the losing side.

He rubbed his hands aggressively across his face and groaned. This had started fourteen days ago – the strange feeling of something completely alien and wrong going on within his body. Come to think of it the day he had woken up in John's bed had been the exact point he had deduced that something was a little off.

Then there had been that text message that Lestrade had sent him a few days ago. He could recall in his mind palace what the text had said and how befuddled it had left him.

**_You are excused from all cases for the time being. I don't care if you act like you don't feel anything. After what happened it's bound to have affected you and John in some way. You both need some time to recuperate. – GL._**

He had been trying to piece together what the meaning of those words were for days now.

However without cases he was bored and boredom along with whatever was going on with him was affecting his mind, causing it to be sluggishly slow in piecing together each part of the puzzle together.

He was almost certain that that text was vital to getting to the bottom of all this.

So what did he have?

A strange text from Lestrade

The fact that he and John had woken up with each other in bed without recollection of forty -eight hours of both their memories.

A strange niggling feeling that something was wrong in the back of his mind. (He always paid attention to strange feelings in his mind.)

And then of course there was his shirt.

It was all about his shirt.

Obviously.

His 'purple shirt of sex' - as so many fan girls had named it (Much to Sherlock's distaste)

The curly haired man's form was bean pole thin but even so all of his shirts were tight fitting, clinging onto his skin like it was their life force. Now it seemed his shirt felt even tighter- not by much – just an inch.

However that inch was a worrisome amount for a man like Sherlock. He hardly ever ate, and his metabolism was lightning quick. The buttons weren't straining but it was a bit painful to breath because of the clinginess of the material.

Yes this was definitely something Sherlock was set out to worry about.

Especially if his purple shirt of sex was suffering.

Had he just called his shirt his purple shirt of sex? He was starting to sound like the fangirls. He was definitely in trouble.

Hmmm … fangirls. Actually that might be the answer. As crazy as all of his and John's fans were maybe they knew something that Sherlock didn't. They were always coming up with insane theories about their life in 221B. He might find a clue there.

Reaching for John's laptop (He'd stolen it a while back. John had stopped blogging so much as they hadn't been on any cases.)

He then proceeded to find some amazingly disturbing things.

(A scary place that he soon wished that he hadn't entered.)

2. Blatant Johnlock porn. (Who knew that the army doctor was that flexible? Interesting.)

3. Mystrade porn. (Scarred for life. He does not wish to know why girls imagine his brother and the D.I doing such sickening things to each other. He had always assumed that the Elder Holmes should just be 'shipped' - as the fan girls call it – with cake. Mycake? Hmmm yes. That would make a much better name.)

4. Fan fictions that involved him and Anderson... 'together' (He was nearly physically sick when he glanced over those ones. How could anyone think that? … even the pairing name is idiotic. Shanderson? )

5. Sheetlock. It was pretty self-explanatory really. Just pictures of himself covered in only his sheet and the twisted fantasies the fangirls seemed to create in their minds.

6. Punklock. Now this was an interesting one. Apparently the fan girls loved to imagine them as bad boys with hairstyles that made his skin crawl, and where his tight fitting suits used to be the outfits they pictured him in were most undesirable. Though he had to admit the punk versions of John that he found were rather endearing.

7. The comparison between himself and otters. He was quite offended at that. He most certainly didn't look nor does he act like an otter.

8. When he came across the comparison of John and hedgehogs his heart melted. His flatmate was just like a hedgehog. He was small, and cute, and …. Dear lord had he thought of John as cute? Perhaps he should reword that? …. John was … charming? Yes charming! Charming in a ' dainty I want to snuggle you and fit you into my pocket kind of charming'. Yes that would have to do.

5. Mpreg (In which he or John could conceive a child)

To the latter he snorted and rolled his eyes. What were children being taught these days? He may be seen as naive to the world of love and sex but he knew that babies came from women not men. Even if it were possible for a male to conceive where on Earth was the baby going to come out of?

_Silly, ridiculous, psychotic fan girls. _

He slammed the laptop shut. His research had been completely inconclusive. It had only left images behind his eyes that he really didn't want there. Unfortunately for Sherlock they were now burnt into his mind palace for eternity. There was no deleting them.

He huffed and curled himself into a tight ball, totally dissatisfied with his lack of solving the puzzle that was displayed before him.

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	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:I do not own**

**Warnings : Mpreg and mentions of Sherlock's drug habits if you squint.**

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Mycroft Holmes was poised behind his desk. He like the younger Holmes was constantly thinking. However unlike his brother his mind wasn't taken up by pointless facts and data that would add to nothing but his ego because of having a higher intelligence than other civilians. It was riddled with information about the government and Britain, and politics, and begrudgingly and much to his hatred it was occupied with the constant worry for his baby brother. There was always that sensation – that niggling at the back of his mind – that stomach churning feeling. He supposed that feeling had made its home in his gut from Sherlock's reckless teenage years. He still couldn't help but see the sickly boy who had lost his way somewhere along the line to drugs and other utterly foul habits – the boy that had ended up in hospital one too many times.

Even after Gregory Lestrade had cleared him up and given him a direction to aim for he still found himself fretting over him all these years later. So to say he wasn't a little panicked by the call he'd received from John would have been a lie. It made him wonder what the ex-army doctor would want to talk about. Considering their very first meeting and John's ultimate loyalty to his brother within only a few days of knowing him and his knowledge of his and Sherlock's childish feud it would have had to be serious to take the matter up with him.

He wondered silently if this had anything to do with his brothers break in at Baskerville. He hadn't quite found out the reasoning behind the break in other than it had been for a vitally important case. As heartless he was at times he realized that the cases Sherlock took on were the key for him to not slip into his old ways. God forbid if he got bored and did something drastic to quench his boredom. Which is why he so often put is reputation and integrity on the line. He cared for his brother – a little more than he likes to admit. As children he had practically brought Sherlock up. Despite the fact that many a bridge had been burned between the two of them he still felt strongly bonded by blood and duty of care. He was all he now had and he would do anything for him if it wasn't for his brothers pride and stubbornness he would do so much more openly. Instead he had to rely on spies, alliances, and surveillance cameras.

_Oh little brother what have you gone and gotten yourself into this time? _ Mycroft thought morosely to himself.

When John Watson walked into the room Mycroft's eyes immediately scanned him to see if he could deduce the problem.

_Week old stubble shadowing his face._

_Huge purple bags clawing beneath his bloodshot eyes. _

_Two day old shirt._

_Stance ever so slightly slumped. Unusual for an ex-military man._

_The man's eyes spoke volume, screaming for help, and understanding of a billion questions that had clearly been eating him alive. _

"Sit, John." Mycroft said, his voice edged with a surprising feathery softness, for he supposed that he has a soft spot for his brother's closest and perhaps only friend.

Mycroft Holmes prided himself on being a good judge of people. He had to be in his line of work. He saw only good qualities in John.

Loyalty. Faith. A welcoming heart. Patience. Kindness.

All of which completed his brother. His brother had a heart of steel. Nothing could get in and nothing could get out. It would seem his acquired flatmate had been the exception to the rule, something which both unsettled the government official and comforted him. Sherlock had someone. That was nice.

John gave him a sweet smile but Mycroft could tell that it didn't quite reach his eyes. He sat down in the chair, sinking into it as though the chair itself was physically swallowing the man whole.

"What has Sherlock gotten himself into this time?" Mycroft sighed, running his fingers around the edge of his glass of scotch out of nervous habit.

"It's rather what he's not gotten himself into." John replied, nibbling on his lower lip. Mycroft raised an inquiring eyebrow and waited for the army doctor to continue. "The first time he's spoken to me in two weeks was today – I know Sherlock can have his silent spells but this is almost different – it's a peculiar kind of silence. And now he's gone and locked himself in his bedroom and he just seems … out of sorts." He shook his head. "Am I being a complete idiot?"

Mycroft snorted, "Not at all. My brother has a range of peculiar habits and traits, this being one of the less destructive ones." His expression darkened, and his eyes clouded. "Of course if there were any sign of his – more harmful habits returning, you would tell me, wouldn't you?"

John nodded. " You don't think that he could be potentially turning back to drugs, do you? Because honestly Mycroft I'm quite despairing. I live with the man but I know very little of him. Of course I'd tell you if I thought something was up. I'm here, aren't I?"

"Quite, and I am appreciative of the update on the status of my brother. How long has he been like this?" Mycroft leant back in his chair and rolled his shoulders in an attempt to decrease the tension that was slowly building in his muscles.

John bit his lower lip in thought, "Two weeks ago." He informed, his voice strong and certain.

"Exactly two weeks ago?" Mycroft inquired.

"Yes. Why do you ask?" His brother's flatmate's expression peaked in curiosity.

"Because it coincides with the break in at Baskerville. I never did inquire why the two of you were trundling around the military base for. I assumed it was for a case as that is what Sherlock told me. "

John looked on at Mycroft with a blank face. "Break in?"

The government official instantly straightened, scanning John frantically with his eagle like eyes. "Yes, doctor Watson. Entering a military base without consent and with a stolen ID does count as breaking in. Perhaps you have been acquainted with my brother's careless ways long enough for you to forget that fact."

John's previously blank face was now crumpled in a deep and dumbfounded and almost unsettling confusion. "Believe me when I say I don't know what you're going on about."

Mycroft felt a hard lump rise in his throat. He could tell that John was telling the absolute truth but the fact still settled; Sherlock and John had broken into Baskerville, twice actually. Once without his knowledge and the second time when Sherlock called him for his permission to investigate further. Mycroft's ID card had been stolen and used, CCTV footage had recorded them entering the military base on two occasions. Why was John's memory wiped clean of all that? "Let me rejog your memory." He proceeded to show John files about Henry's suicide, the CCTV footage, and the bugged phone call he had received from Sherlock.

John just got paler and paler with each passing second. "That can't be right. This doesn't make sense. We didn't – none of that happened. At least I can't remember it happening -"

"And yet the evidence would beg to differ. This did happen and just the mere fact that you can't remember is rather worrisome indeed."

John swallowed, "Why can't I remember? Why hasn't Sherlock said anything?"

"Either he's hiding something or he's in the same situation as you. Still this can only mean that something did happen within Baskerville. I don't know what but I intend to find out. I'll make some calls, and if you are truly worried for my brother's safety I shall increase the level of surveillance around the flat and get my people to keep a closer eye on him."

John relaxed in the chair instantly and smiled properly for the first time since he had entered Mycroft's office. "Thanks Mycroft. That means a lot."

As John got up and left with a curt nod of goodbye Mycroft thoughts swayed, tilting in the silence the blonde left behind. Something was drastically wrong. Mycroft could tell, he could always tell when it came to these things. A bad feeling began to brew within him as his blood boiled nervously in his veins.

He picked up his phone with a sigh. He had a few phone calls to make. Firstly he would request Gregory Lestrade to take Sherlock up on a case. His brother was clearly in need of a distraction.

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	6. Chapter 6

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own.**

**Warnings : Mpreg and a gruesome murder.**

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Yes, a case at last! Sherlock was ecstatic. Lestrade was finally letting him back on cases – not that there had been any reason to take him off of them in the first place. He'd bounded up to the crime scene within fifteen minutes of receiving the text. He was so giddy with joy that there was a permanent grin plastered upon porcelain features.

"What's got you in such a good mood, freak?" Sally Donovan questioned him as she raised the crime scene tape for him to enter. She was glaring at him with pure disgust and disapproval.

Normally Sherlock would have bitten that remark as bait and replied with something to the point, sarcastic, and satisfying. However after being cooped up in the flat for two weeks solid with an insolvable problem playing on his mind he found himself too wired up to even form a response. His smoky eyes rolled of their own accord as they always seemed to do when he was graced with someone as ridiculously stupid as Sally Donovan and he passed by her hurriedly.

And there it was. A new puzzle. A new mystery. The remains of what once was a person.

He waited for that rush of excitement he got at the prospect of having a new puzzle for him to piece together but it didn't come. Instead he was aware of a tidal wave of nausea passing over him as he inhaled the, what must have been days old, scent of the rotting corpse of the young woman who had met an early fate. He grimaced, pushing the feeling aside, and peering closer at the dead woman, inspecting her with trained eyes.

"Any ideas?" Sherlock glanced up at Lestrade who was watching him from the open door way curiously. It had been him to ask the question.

"A few." He replied distractedly, waving a hand in the D.I's direction to motion him to stay quiet and to refrain from further interruption.

The woman was young, not particularly good looking, especially with her throat slit open and her arms twisted at awkward angles, however Sherlock observed that she was pretty enough. The woman would have been an easy picking for someone to murder. He ghosted his gloved fingers over the slit in her throat. It was deep and the blood was dried and starting to crust. His mind scanned through all clues that would lead to the killer however he was finding it hard to concentrate. It was as though the nausea that he was suppressing was causing his mind to reach a solid brick wall. His thoughts would gather for a short amount of time but would then scatter like marbles hitting the floorboards after only a few seconds.

He pressed his fists into his eyes and let out a wary sigh. The nausea would pass, it would have to. Sherlock Holmes wasn't a man to be beaten so easily.

"Sherlock? Are you ok mate?" A voice pressed against his ear drums, wriggling its way into his hazy mind like a knife, catching him unusually off guard.

He jumped at the sound and jittered backwards, almost toppling completely onto the floor. That violent motion was the final straw for his stomach and vomit spilled from his mouth and onto the floor besides the corpse.

Arms were quickly clinging to him and Lestrade was hovering in his personal space. "Jesus, Sherlock are you ok now? Are ya sick? What's wrong?"

The consulting detective lay limp on the floor; his eyes started to flicker close as despite the fact his stomach had been emptied from the very little content that it had been containing the waves of nausea kept on rolling through his body. He weakly muttered out a "Fine." Because that's all his lips would allow to pass.

"Yeh, you're bloody king of fine, aren't ya?" Lestrade shook his head. "I'm calling an ambulance."

"No!" Sherlock yelled loudly, suddenly finding his strength and scrabbling to a sitting position. "No ambulances." He reiterated.

"Right, ok. No ambulances." Lestrade said, holding up his hands in surrender. "But you're definitely going home. No arguments, okay."

"Fine." Sherlock muttered weakly in defeat, giving as brief eye roll to show his annoyance in the situation.

"Anderson, come over here!" Lestrade beckoned the vermin labelled ' Anderson' over .

Sherlock grunted, "No, no, don't call ' it' over here. You don't know what disease I might catch from that."

"It has a name you know." Anderson sneered, hovering much to Sherlock's disgust directly over him.

Sherlock snorted, "Everything has names. My skull has a name. That doesn't mean I have to oblige and call it by its name."

Anderson sighed and glanced over to the pile of sick that Sherlock had just created in disgust. "Great," He moaned. "You've damaged the evidence."

"It hardly touched the evidence." Sherlock bit back.

"Sherlock." Lestrade tutted like a mother telling their child off for being purposely rude.

"What?" Sherlock puffed out his cheeks.

"Play nice." Lestrade muttered, shaking his head. He could tell that today was going to be a long day. It had barely started and they already had a murderer on the loose, their best detective down with god knows what illness, and now he had to prevent a war between Sherlock and Anderson. "That goes the same for you Anderson."

"Whatever." Anderson snorted. "What do we do with him now?"

"I am still here you know!" Sherlock exclaimed from his position on the floor.

"Oh, how could we forget that with you complaining every five seconds?" Anderson was grinding his teeth together by this point and Sherlock looked ready to lunge at him.

The D.I let out a long sigh. "Just help me get him into a car, Anderson."

With an exasperated eye roll Anderson nodded. "Fine. As long as he doesn't throw up over me."

"Oh, I wish." Sherlock smirked. "However that shall not be the case. I have nothing left to throw up."

With that said Anderson and Lestrade gave each other a look and they both counted to three. On the number three they both grabbed a shoulder and carefully levered him up, supporting his weak body.

They led him over to a police car and helped him inside, even going as far as strapping him in, much to the consulting detectives chagrin. "I'll take it from here, Anderson." Lestrade said. He didn't want to have to deal with a whole car journey with Anderson and Sherlock trapped in the same car. Anderson huffed and walked away. He hadn't wanted to come anyway. Lestrade smiled despite himself and shook his head. "How are you feeling?" He asked gently.

A growl type sound emitted from his throat. "I. Am. Fine." He grit out the words. "It was just a slight mishap, that's all."

"Yeh, ok. Sorry for caring." Lestrade sighed as he started the engine of the car.

"Caring?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Caring is not an advantage. It could get you killed; the emotion clouds your mind, and forces you into making foolish decisions."

Lestrade ignored Sherlock and chose a different topic to talk about. If Sherlock wanted to act like a robot so be it. The D.I knew far better than to assume that Sherlock didn't care. It was just difficult for the younger man to express such emotion. "So, erm, how have you been, Sherlock?"

"What a dull conversational starter." Sherlock sighed heavily, as though a whole world was pressed to his shoulders and was slowly weighing him down. "Though if you must know I have been bored witless without any cases. Cutting me of from the yard was cruel. You know that I need my mind to be constantly stimulated. "

"I know, Sherlock. It's just – " Lestrade wavered, unsure if he should continue his sentence.

"Just what inspector?" Sherlock queried, his curiosity truly peaked now.

"I was worried about you." Lestrade answered gruffly.

"Worried?" The curly haired detective gave a signature eye roll. "And why may I ask have I raised said worry?"

"Well after what happened in Baskerville I just thought –" Lestrade found himself interrupted by the sharp tongued man sitting beside him.

"Baskerville? What are you going on about, Lestrade?"

The silver haired man took his eyes off the road for a brief second to take in Sherlock's expression. It was blank and collected as ever. "Young Henry night committed suicide and I thought that maybe – you might have been upset a little. After all it was your case and you didn't prevent it. Not that I'm blaming you!" He was quick to correct himself. "I mean the poor bloke was driven out of his mind my those two men. I just thought I'd give ya a little break to recuperate. "Sherlock turned his head to the window and pressed his cheekbone to the cool material. "Sherlock? Did I say something wrong? Look, I know you're not one for emotions but I still wanted to give you some time. You seemed pretty out of it when you came back."

"Shut up. Thinking." Sherlock closed his eyes shut, concentrating hard.

Lestrade simply nodded and allowed Sherlock space to think. He wasn't prepared to get yelled at for breaking Sherlock's 'mind palace' walls down.

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	7. Chapter 7

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own**

**Warnings: This is a mpreg fanfic. **

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John didn't return to the flat immediately after his meeting with Mycroft. He had gone for a walk to clear his mind and to let what the Elder Holmes had told him to sink in, which as an afterthought had been a terrible idea as it had meant leaving Sherlock alone for far longer than would have been seen as wise. As he got to the flat terrible images flashed through his mind. In the best case scenario the detective had just gotten incredibly bored, as was usual when John wasn't in his company, and had taken out his boredom by pounding a few bullets into the poor defenseless wall. A few worse scenarios flew through his mind as well. It may very well be one of his flatmates 'danger days' after all. Anything could have occurred whilst he had been absent from the flat.

He thumbled with the keys in the flat door and after what felt like a good few long minutes finally managed to turn the key in just the right way in the stiff and awkward lock. (He'd have to get that looked at. It was frankly a little ridiculous that it was so hard to get into his own flat.)

Once inside he thundered up the stairs, urgency filling every step that he took. "Sherlock?" He called as he burst through the door of 221B.

Whatever he'd been expecting it wasn't the sight that lay before him.

A frustrated Sherlock hopping from one foot to the other whilst a completely baffled looking Lestrade was sat on the sofa watching helplessly.

Lestrade was the first one to notice him. "Ah, John! Answer your phone mate. I've been trying to get through for a couple of hours now."

John felt his heart do a funny little shimmy within his ribcage. He reached for his phone in his back pocket and saw that he had missed seven calls from the D.I . He swallowed guiltily and sent an apologetic look to Greg. He'd put his phone on silence, just for a little while, but obviously long enough for Sherlock to have gotten into some sort of trouble. "What's - er – going on?" He asked breathlessly.

"Sherlock's sick. Aren't ya, Sherlock?" Lestrade stated simply, glancing up at the said sick man.

"I am fine!" Sherlock exclaimed in utter annoyance, accompanied by an eye roll.

John frowned and surveyed his flatmate carefully. He was speaking at least now and he was no longer listless. He was the extreme opposite of how John had left him. The brunette was acting like hyperactive five year old, running circles around poor Lestrade. He didn't look sickly at all which puzzled John. Lestrade seemed so adamant that something was off about the detective. "What happened?" He questioned the silver haired man whom was still plonked on the sofa.

"He threw up at a crime scene." Greg was frowning now too. "We still haven't solved the case, and I should really be getting back. I just didn't want to risk leaving him alone, not if he's really sick." He stood up and brushed his hands over his clothes, removing the creases that had formed on them.

"Wrong." Sherlock said with a sudden bluntness.

"What's wrong, Sherlock?" John asked. He tried to keep the worry out of his voice but it somehow managed to creep in despite his best efforts. Sherlock had thrown up? His eyes were scanning Sherlock frantically for any sign of illness that he might have missed.

"We have solved the case, or rather I have." Sherlock's face now possessed a smug smile.

Lestrade crossed his arms and shook his head in amazement. "How? You were barely on the crime scene a few minutes."

"All I needed was a few seconds. I'm surprised that even you didn't see it. Surely you can't be that stupid detective inspector?" Sherlock raised one of his bushy eyebrows before letting out a loud and undignified snort. "What am I saying? Of course you didn't see it. Your observation skills are still quite minimal."

"Sherlock," Lestrade gave an exasperated sigh. "Just lay it on us."

"It was the boyfriend, obviously."

"The boyfriend? Wait – what boyfriend?" Lestrade tried to remember if there had been any mentions of a boyfriend. There hadn't. Once again he found himself dumbfounded by the deduction skills of the young detective.

Sherlock clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and held his hands together underneath his chin. He had finally stopped hopping from one foot to the other so that he could give his explanation. "Yes, the boyfriend! Patrick Parker! "He did a small twirl as though performing in front of an audience on a stage. "The woman had a tattoo inscribed on her wrist. Tiny so I wouldn't expect you to notice it, Lestrade. The tattoo was a man's name: Patrick Parker. It could be a name of a relative but I do believe our victim to have no family. Her skin was slightly tough, weathered. It shows that she's been living rough for quite a few years. No family to rely on, at least no relatives that she is in contact with, or wants contact with. Could be a friend but a woman like our victim wouldn't have many friends. So that leaves the last option, a boyfriend, her lover. When I say boyfriend Patrick probably brought her into his home and gave her a place to live. In a sort of thanks I suppose she started a physical relationship with him. "He pulled a face as the thought of physical relationships horrified him.

"That's brilliant." John hadn't even been at the crime scene but he was blown away by Sherlock's amazing ability to pick up the smallest of details.

"Do you know you still do that out loud?" Sherlock asked him, fixing his ever changing colored eyes on John. Today they were an inquisitive shade of pastel blue and they sent shivers up the ex-army doctor's spine.

A peppered blush crept up John's neck and onto his cheeks. "Sorry." He mumbled. "I thought you liked me saying things like that."

"I do." Sherlock's eyes crinkled and for a moment John was certain one of the detectives very rare smiles was about to break through. Much to his disappointment it didn't and Sherlock turned his attention back to Lestrade to continue his explanation.

"How did I know it was the boyfriend do I hear you ask?" He was circling Lestrade now, like a lion slowly seeking out its prey and the poor D.I was visibly uncomfortable.

"Yeh. How did you know that it was the boyfriend?" Lestrade asked, edging away from Sherlock nervously.

"Simple." Sherlock said, his lips quivering smugly. "The bruises."

"The bruises?" Lestrade whispered to himself, lips pursed together.

"Yes, inspector. That is what I said. Do try to keep up. The woman had bruises littering her neck, days old. It suggests that she was in an abusive relationship. She wanted out and so she left him, or rather she thought she left him. He took revenge on her. His ego most likely took quite a knock and he sought her out, wanting to punish her, and punish her he did. So go inspector, tell your team that this puzzle has been solved and close the case. Go catch your killer."

"Right, yeh, wow. " Lestrade nodded, taking in everything Sherlock had told him. "I'll go tell the guys." He began to take his leave but not before grabbing John's arm. "Keep an eye on him, yeh? I just have a really bad feeling."

John swallowed down hard but nodded and shared a look with Greg to tell him that he would do just that. He waited for Greg to leave and for the steady bang of the door shutting before making his way over to Sherlock. "It's good to see you err – up and about." He stumbled for what to say to which Sherlock just gave him a penetrating look that pierced his very soul. "How are you feeling? Were you – you know – sick?"

The younger man's mask melted and suddenly he looked more tired than John had ever seen him. He had obviously been putting on a show for Lestrade. The detective was evidently really not feeling very well. "Yes, I was. It's probably nothing though. One of those dreadful twenty four hour bugs. "

John placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder gingerly. "I'm the doctor. Allow me to make a decision about whether this is nothing, alright?" He knew something was desperately wrong when Sherlock did nothing but nod feebly. He led his flatmate to the sofa and to add to his growing concern there were no complaints or whining.

Moving his fingertips over Sherlock's head he hissed. "You're burning up." He noted. It was nothing significant and John had seen patients with far worse fevers than his flatmate was currently dealing with but he still couldn't stop the lump growing in his throat. "Nothing that a bit of rest won't cure." He said

Sherlock's head was already lolling to one side. Yet another worrisome sign. Sherlock fought sleep like an insolent child, avoiding it all costs, and practically screaming when John even mentioned that he should probably at least get a bit of shut eye before his entire body cave in on itself. No, there was no fight. Sherlock's façade had been stripped away, leaving a man under his care that John barely recognized.

John was quick to go into doctor mode. He fetched several blankets and a wet flannel to place on the detectives head to cool his temperature. He adjusted the ill man on the sofa so that he was lying fully stretched out along the length of the piece of furniture and gently covered him with the blankets. He then pressed the damp flannel to Sherlock's clammy forehead and sighed in relief when he saw him relax completely.

"Stay."

It was a gentle request that melted the army doctor's heart. He smiled and cautiously lifted the covers to crawl underneath them. "I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock." The depth to those words hit John like walking into a brick wall. He wasn't just talking about not leaving Sherlock whilst he was sick. He was talking about forever. He never wanted to leave the brilliant, crazy, and if he dare say beautiful man. He was far more content with his life in 221B more than he had ever been in his life.

Half of John was hanging off the sofa as no matter how comfortable he was with his flatmate he wanted to respect Sherlock by not getting too close. He knew how much the younger man hated physical contact.

"Don't be ridiculous, John." Sherlock muttered, looping his long arms around John's waist, tugging him fully onto the sofa. John wriggled awkwardly as the detective held him tightly. He could feel a blush staining his face as his brain tried to comprehend where he was and what he was doing.

Sherlock, despite being all bones and angles was actually surprisingly cuddly and soft. John was basked in the warmth of the detective and he was beginning to feel tired and warn out. After such a long amount of time pondering what was wrong with his suddenly even more distant flatmate he was finally relaxing. Two weeks of stress began to roll off of his body in waves. He closed his eyes, ignoring how strange it should have been to be snuggled under a blanket with Sherlock and focusing just on how right it felt instead; he fell into a deep sleep.

Sherlock raised a hand to smooth out the creases in John's forehead. He couldn't help but feel guilty in the knowledge that he was the one who had put them there. "I'm sorry." He whispered softly. "I have been an insufferable idiot. I promise to try to at least keep you in the loop now. I've found a clue to the puzzle I was solving. Baskerville? Does it ring any bells?" He knew he would not receive an answer but he continued speaking anyway. I do not blame you for seeking out my brothers help. I was unaware of how much my mood was affecting you. We'll work this out, together. I am certain of that."

Sherlock received nothing more than a loud snore from his friend. He took that as a cue to fall fully asleep too, putting his bad day away in his mind palace as he let sleep take him. His head pounded irritatingly loud and his stomach was still twisting into shapes and knots that made it painful to even participate in the simple task of breathing but he was at least in the comfortable knowledge that John Watson was very much akin to a soft, plump pillow.

'_My pillow.' _He absently thought as he flew off to the land of the sleeping.

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	8. Chapter 8

**DISCLAIMER : I do not own**

**Warnings****: No warnings really for this chapter. Just that this is a Mpreg fic and that will come to light in future chapters. **

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John was worried.

It seemed that's all he did with his life now. This may or may not have been because his life had slowly evolved to rotate around Sherlock, and one week after he had fallen ill the detective hadn't improved one little bit. His body was fighting god knows what.

It had started with a small fever and the sickness spell Lestrade had reported. That John had been able to deal with fine, but now he found himself besides himself. He knew that he'd have to face the fact that Sherlock was impossibly sick and that his own medical knowledge and skills weren't good enough in this current situation.

His flatmate was throwing up almost constantly now. Every day without fail Sherlock would be knelt on the bathroom floor chucking his guts up whilst John just stood behind him patting his back gingerly. His temperature dipped low then spiked to be dangerously high, never going away completely.

The worst thing of all was the helplessness that was stirring within John. He was supposed to be a doctor, a man who healed people, but nothing he did made the detective any better. In fact his condition was worsening.

The already terrifyingly thin man had lost weight that he hadn't been able to afford to in the first place and his resemblance to a skeleton rather than an actual living human being was frankly beyond disturbing.

There was once again only silence filling the flat but it wasn't Sherlock's stubbornness or odd moods that were the cause of it. The fact was Sherlock was too weak to speak and was saving all his energy for tasks that he only deemed talking to John wasn't one of them. However unlike before Sherlock was at least communicating with him, not verbally, but he was communicating with him none the less.

It was written in his features, suddenly so childlike, and in his pastel colored eyes, conveying his fear and lack of control on whatever illness was devastating him.

On more than one occasion Sherlock had all but dragged him onto the sofa, begging silently for a cuddle. John had been shocked at first, not knowing where this sudden craving for human contact had come from but the army doctor found himself giving into him each time.

He wasn't quite sure what was going on between them but things were definitely changing. Whether they would stay that was a different matter entirely. It could hardly count as a friendship – there were far too many intimate touches passed between them. Though perhaps that was just the need to comfort each other whilst Sherlock was so ill. It would seem that their relationship could only be labelled as ' complicated.' Except it wasn't complicated at all at the same time. John wanted nothing more than to hug Sherlock's problems away and it was obvious Sherlock wished for the same. They had a mutual understanding.

But it wasn't that simple. Sherlock needed help. He needed to go to a hospital. He needed blood tests done to see what the hell was going on with him.

In other words he needed more than just John, more than a few hugs, more than a hushed promise to never leave his side.

John had tried to get in touch with Mycroft, despite the accusing glares he would receive from Sherlock every time he did. However since the last time John had seen him there had been no sight or sound of the government official. That in itself was very suspicious indeed. The Elder Holmes was frequently trying to impose himself of their lives at 221B, whether it is the man himself or one of his men. Mycroft always seemed to find a way. But now? Now he was gone. It was as though he had dropped off the end of the Earth.

_Typical. Just typical. Mycroft Holmes takes a holiday whilst his little brother is sick a dog. _

There were still John's manic worries about what he had been told about the break in at Baskerville, and both their lack of memories of breaking in. Could that be connected with Sherlock's illness? What had happened in that time period?

Lestrade had also suspiciously disappeared too. There had been no texts or calls about any new cases, not that Sherlock would have been well enough to take them. Had the criminals of London packed their bags for better offers? John wasn't so sure. Perhaps there was something even bigger that he was missing.

It would seem John would worry himself into an early grave at this rate.

If this went on for much longer John was going to drag Sherlock to hospital himself. Sod the detective's hatred for the places; sod his inability to consult Mycroft. All he knew was Sherlock would die if he continued to throw up what little content he had in his stomach.

John Watson wasn't prepared to lose his friend over something as trivial as an illness. Let him die doing what he does best, chasing down criminals whilst deducing at a hundred miles per hour, and maybe if John was really lucky that wasn't the way Sherlock would go at all. Maybe if he was really lucky he and Sherlock would retire at old age and spend what was left of their lives together.

He smiled for the first time in what felt like years as he pictured an old version of Sherlock, graying curls, laugh lines dotting his eyes, rocking back and forth in a rocking chair whilst exclaiming his boredom to the whole of Baker Street.

A retired Sherlock was a most amusing image indeed and a far better one than he was faced with now.

Sherlock was looking at him with sunken eyes, his lips were trembling, and he had fallen sideways on the sofa with the inability to get himself back up.

He sighed heavily and moved to right Sherlock on the sofa. "We're going to have to talk about this sooner or later, Sherlock." He whispered softly, sitting beside him. Sherlock gave him an exasperated look. "Hospital, Sherlock. If this continues for much longer, that's where you'll be going. I'm sorry but I can't do this for much longer and neither can you."

The sickly creature that had replaced his friend simply whimpered and buried his face in John's chest.

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	9. Chapter 9

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own**

**A/N: I would just like to thank everyone who has reviewed so far. I hope you enjoy this little Mystrade chappy. **

**Warning: This is a Mpreg fic and there will be mentions of it. If that kind of thing makes you uncomfortable then just don't read. **

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"Do you understand what I am asking of you?"

The question bit through Lestrade like barred wire slicing into his flesh. Perhaps it was purely because of the man who had asked it. Mycroft Holmes. Or maybe it was the seriousness and the urgency within the government official's voice that added the extra sharp edge to his words.

"Yes, I understand. Well – sort of." The D.I currently felt like he was being scrutinised. He stood behind Mycroft's desk like a naughty school boy and since he hadn't been asked to take a seat he didn't.

"Good. Then I entrust you will be absolutely discreet about this."

Of course Lestrade would be discreet. He knew well enough by now that Mycroft held the power to make lives miserable. His life was barely bearable as it was, what with his divorce just being finalized , and the never ending waves of crime that were hitting London, and then of course there was his lusting after the Elder Holmes that he neither understood or wanted.

It hadn't always been this way. Lestrade had despised Mycroft when they had first met. Or rather when he had been kidnapped by Anthea, Mycroft's PA, though her name had been different then, still beginning with an A though … Amy? Anna? Anastasia? Greg hadn't a clue as to what it had been, but then being whisked away to a dark building in an ominous black car and threatened by a complete stranger might have affected his memories somewhat.

That had been his first encounter and despite having been shaken up and a little confused as to why he'd been told to let a homeless ex- junkie onto some of his cases, he had been completely transfixed by the stranger in a three piece suit. And the fact was Greg still felt a little weak kneed around Mycroft, a little being an understatement.

The man never failed to surprise him and Lestrade is fairly sure that he has seen more sides of Mycroft than most other people were allowed to see, though that could just behim being hopeful. Why would Mycroft Holmes open up to him?

But here they were, a good few years down the line, no longer strangers and Mycroft had turned to him for help. Of course he had turned to him for help at the start but that had been an order, there had been spiteful words thrown, and threats to dig up Greg's own past drug abuse to ruin his career, but this, this was different. Mycroft Holmes was requesting him for his help, not demanding, requesting.

"You can trust know me, My."Greg could hardy stop the nickname he had started using for the elder Holmes in his head from slipping out. "I mean – sorry er – Mycroft."

Luckily the nickname didn't seem to faze Mycroft. In fact he seemed almost amused. His lips twitched as though a smile was threatening to break through and his eyebrows rose. "It is fine , Gregory. I assure you Sherlock has come up with far more inventive and ridiculous nicknames than 'My' "

Greg chuckled lightly. "Really?"

"I believe 'fatcroft' and 'brolly man' were two of the most annoying ones." Mycroft replied, a small smile finally cracking his features.

The D.I's chuckles turned into a battle of laughter. "Brolly man? Fatcroft is ridiculous as you're in no way fat at all, but brolly man? I think that one might just stick."

" Though I hate to admit it I was quite a chubby child and teenager." Mycroft was clearly trying to hold back a blush but was failing dramatically. "And I beg you to not call me brolly man, Gregory."

"Why not?" Lestrade's laughter was dying down into nothing but a few giggles here and there now. "It really suits you. You have an obsession with that dam thing."

Mycroft puffed out his cheeks. "I do not."

"Do too." Lestrade retorted.

"You're such a – child." Mycroft frowned, puffing his cheeks out further.

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Excuse me? I'm the child? Have you heard yourself?" Greg asked, a lopsided grin sliding over his face.

"Apparently not." Mycroft returned the small gesture. "Now back to business, yes?" And with that the grin was gone, hidden behind a solid mask.

Greg nodded solemnly, "Yeh, ok. As I was saying. You can trust me."

"I never doubted that, Gregory. Now do take a seat."

Greg felt himself sigh in relief as Mycroft finally gave the cue for him to sit. The little flirting game he and Mycroft played (if it could be counted as flirting that is) had well and truly made his legs feel like jelly. "So – Sherlock?"

"Yes, Sherlock." There was a sigh, long and tired.

"You think he's gotten himself into trouble?"

Mycroft shook his head. "No."

"No?" Greg asked, cocking his head to one side.

"No." Mycroft said again. "I know for a fact that he has gotten himself into trouble. "

"What kind of trouble? Surely not drugs? I would have noticed that." Greg began to panic. Was that why Sherlock had been out of sorts at that crime scene? Drugs?

"I am afraid it is far worse than drugs, and I feel partly responsible for my brother's situation."

"Worse?" Greg felt his breath hitch in his throat. "What's worse than drug use? And how are you responsible?"

"I cannot tell you the full details." Mycroft's face was stony, his eyes distant. "Have you been keeping my brother off of cases?" He questioned.

"Yeh. Just like you told me. What I don't get is why? You seemed adamant that it was the lack of cases that were bothering him before. Why change the orders?"

"Whereas I have no doubt my brother was suffering somewhat without cases I am afraid if he continued he would do himself more harm than good." Mycroft stood and poured himself a scotch. "Till it is safe to eradicate his condition it will have to remain that way, understood?"

"Yeh, sure. What condition though? Is he ill?" Greg's curiosity was truly peaked now and the concern lacing his voice was unmistakable.

"He has an illness of a kind, yes. However I will ensure that he has a full recovery. In fact I do believe my men are taking Sherlock to a special facility right now."

"Special facility?" Greg swallowed down hard. "Is the illness contagious then? Because I was around him when he threw up." He felt terror rip through him. Was the illness serious? He felt fine at the moment but he knew how illnesses had a tendency to brew slowly.

"You are perfectly safe, Gregory." Mycroft assured him. "My brother's - affliction – is not contagious. Though it is very rare. In fact you could say it is the ailment that has struck my brother is one of a kind. "

Greg exhaled deeply, out of relief mostly. "So much like the man himself then? One of a kind."

"Yes. I suppose it is very fitting that this Sherlock would end up in this rather – difficult situation. I can only ask that you are understanding with him when he comes back on your cases. He may be gravely affected by what is going to occur."

Greg swallowed thickly and nodded. "I've always supported him. I'm not gonna stop. Not now. Your brother's a great man. I'm hoping with a little bit of persistence he'll be a good one too."

"I have always hoped that for my brother." Mycroft resigned himself back into his seat with a soft sigh. " Always."

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**Please leave a review. Reviews are always greatly appreciated. **


	10. Chapter 10

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own.**

**A/N: Thanks for all the lovely reviews so far guys! I hope you enjoy this chapter. We start to scratch the surface of what's really going on here. **

**Warning: This fic will contain mentions of Mpreg in the future. If you don't like that sort of thing I suggest you turn away now. **

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The silky material was starting the ruffle in on itself. The purple waves were getting larger as the fabric tightened on its owner. And if you were to really listen close you could probably hear the buttons holding that were just about holding the material together screaming as they went through the everyday torture that had been bestowed upon them.

Maybe Sherlock's deductions of himself were a little over dramatic but he was beyond bored. Being ill, he decided, was no fun at all. Deducing himself was the least he could do. It was quite an interesting deduction to make. His shirt was far too tight on him despite having lost weight rapidly everywhere else, thanks to the constant bile production his useless body was producing. It was irritating beyond belief. The only good thing that had come from all of this was John's sudden affection towards him.

They would cuddle up to each other for practically the whole day. There was no such thing as personal space between them anymore (something John had been most insistent on before he had fallen gravely ill) There were the light feathery touches and the looks that they would give each other. It was something far more beautiful than friendship and yet there was nothing remotely romantic about it. They were just comforting each other. That is all. Or at least that's what the detective kept on telling himself.

That however was becoming increasingly hard as even now he practically melded into his flatmate. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were becoming one man. This was slightly ironic and laughable now that Sherlock came to think about it. After all before their lives had crossed neither of them had been completely whole. They had both been half empty. And even as they became flatmates, and then later on friends, and there had been that undeniable spark of connection between them, they had still been missing something. Sherlock knew what that was now. Perhaps he had known all along and he hadn't wanted to bring himself to even think about such a strange and alien idea. He and John needed each other. They both had fought being this close to each other but now that they were, things were exceptionally peaceful and righteous.

Sherlock had been too worried about the cold and heartless reputation he had. Without that the criminals of London wouldn't fear him, and people would stop taking him so seriously. John had been anxious that people would see him as gay, which of course was a simply ridiculous notion. Why the ex-army doctor continued to worry about his sexuality was a mystery to him. He may not be all that experienced in areas of showing care and affection, or even love to another human being, but one thing he does know is you either care for someone or you don't. So why did it have to be so difficult?

All of that had washed away now, like dirty water making its journey down the drain. Of course it had taken a drastic illness within him to wash it away.

He had been reduced to a sweating, shivering, stick of bones and sharp jagged angles that jutted out in the most uncomfortable of places. He could barely think. His thoughts had been reduced to one simple and meaningful word.

Mine.

John was his, all his. As soon as he was better he would make sure the other man knew and understood that.

Something was ruffling through his curls. It was small and delicate and gentle. It took him awhile but he eventually realized what it was. John's hand.

John liked to stroke his hair it seemed as he had started doing it on a regular basis and his body replied annoyingly by creating soft purring noises in the back of his throat. It would seem that he liked it too. He liked it a lot.

Moments like these made him forget that his body temperature was sky rocketing, made him forget the unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach, blocked out John's threats to drag him to hospital. These moments were peaceful and for once the consulting detective didn't mind the peace. Yes, he was bored out of his mind, but by this point he would usually be scratching his eyes out. At least John's presence stopped him from that.

As John's fingers continued to thread through his wild curls there was a sudden and startling bang. The stroking motion stopped and he could feel John's smaller form freezing against him. The first yell was enough to make Sherlock use the effort to open up his heavy eyelids.

He was aware that there were several men clad in expensive suits. His eyes swept over them and he groaned as he realized who the men were. They were Mycroft's men – nothing but monkeys in smart clothing.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" John had stood to his feet now, walking over to one of the more shady characters stood in the flat with caution. He straightened to his full height but he looked impossibly small compared to the man he was walking over to.

"We've come to take away Mr Holmes." The man grunted in reply, sounding just as idiotic as he looked.

"Take me away?" Sherlock scoffed, his voice cracking from misuse but still holding the bite he had intended it to.

"Where are you taking him? Hmm?" John was puffing out his chest and looking increasingly more annoyed. He was protective of him. How …Utterly sweet. Sherlock hadn't had anyone who was this protective of him for a long while.

Mycroft had once been and to an extent he still was, but work always came first for the Elder Holmes and too many things had changed between them. It wasn't the same. No. John's protectiveness was definitely more powerful and more meaningful. The full meaning was lost on the detective. Why would John even feel the need to protect him?

But then that's the way it had always been with them. John had saved his life within only a short space of time knowing him. Perhaps it was the soldier within him coming out of his shell. Yes, that could possibly be it.

"I'm afraid that's classified. Boss said that we have to take him somewhere. Just following the orders."

"And who is this boss of yours?" John practically hissed, his muscles were taught and he looked akin to a cat begging for a fight.

"Mycroft Holmes."

That was the last thing Sherlock heard. He'd been too busy watching John and the monkey in a suit having what seemed to be a cowboy style showdown that he had ignored the other men, and apparently so had John. This of course led to a needle slicing into his skin and his eyes sliding shut within seconds of the sharp prick.

A sedative.

Even in a deep sleep he craved only one thing.

A cuddle from John Watson.

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**Please leave a review. It would be much appreciated. x**


	11. Chapter 11

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own**

**A/N: A huge thanks goes to everyone who has left reviews. They are much appreciated. We're finally getting down to the Mpreg now as well. :)**

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Sherlock's awakening wasn't a pleasant one. It was full of aches and pains, and nausea. And then there were the voices. They were yelling and he wanted nothing more than to tell them to shut the hell up. His brain was sloshing within his skull and the voices were most certainly not helping. However his lips refused to move. His body clearly had lost all cooperation with whatever was left of his once beautiful and unstained mind. So instead, much to Sherlock's great annoyance he lay, eyes still closed shut, forced to carry on listening to the shouts that were battering against his ears.

"You can't just kidnap people from their own home, Mycroft!"

_Ah John._

_And so that left the other voice inevitably as Mycroft._

"He is my brother. I do what I see fit with him."

_Yes. That was Mycroft all right. Ever the arrogant sod._

"See fit?" John questioned voice thick with anger. "He may be your brother but he's still a human being! He has rights, you know. "

There was a slight grunt of almost reluctant acceptance from Mycroft. "Which is exactly why I have brought him here. His human rights were violated a while back. I am just trying to put things back to their natural order."

"He – what?" There was the loud sound of saliva slipping down John's throat as he gulped down deep and ragged breaths.

"I have discovered the events that occurred in Baskerville."

"And?"

"And they aren't good, as you can probably tell from his current state."

"Wait – " There was a pause. Sherlock could practically hear the cogs turning within the doctor's brain. "What do those events have to do with Sherlock being sick now?"

_Oh, John. Isn't it blatantly obvious?_

Even with the thick smog surrounding his mind he could join the dots together.

If only he had seen it earlier.

It was evident that his illness was connected to the events of Baskerville.

Over the duration of his sickness he had almost completely forgotten about the puzzle he'd been trying to solve.

"Something happened to him. I am afraid he has been put in a rather – shall we stick with difficult situation." There was the gentle tap of the tip of his brother's umbrella on the floor. He was beginning to fidget by the sound of things.

"Difficult?"

Silence.

The silence stretched on for an eternity. It was heavy with tension and apprehension and the detective didn't like it one bit. No. Something was most definitely occurring between his flatmate and his brother as despite the silence he could still feel their presences. He could just imagine them now. Mycroft with his cool and collected glare and John's completely opposite heated and angered expression raging at full capacity.

He heard some shuffling and the sound of fingers flicking through paper. "I believe this explains everything. "

There was more rifling through papers for a while and then a unsteady gasp of shock.

Sherlock felt his heart drop like a stone within his chest. It was serious then? Whatever ailment he had was serious, maybe even life threatening. It took a lot to shock John after all. An awful lot. He was a soldier. There was no question about the amount of horrors he had seen and lived through, and he himself always kept John on his toes.

His curiosity was really starting to grow now. What has shocked John? What could have possibly done that?

" This is – " John trailed off, a strange uncertainty staining his words.

"Impossible? Mad? Truly ridiculous?" Mycroft supplied.

"Yeh. All of those things." John breathed out. "This can't be right."

"Believe me when I say I was thorough whilst researching what happened to the both of you."

"Then Sherlock's - ?"

"Yes. It would appear so."

"Bloody hell."

"Language doctor Watson." Mycroft tutted under his breath.

Sherlock snorted. It was archaic to see bloody as a swear word these days. Then again Mycroft was ever the traditionalist.

"Sorry – it's just. This is my entire fault then?"

"You played your part, yes. However you are not the one to experiment on my younger brother. I can assure you the people who were have been severely punished."

_Experiment?_

Now Sherlock was all for experimenting on himself. He had done in many ways over the ears. But he would never agree for another being to experiment on him.

Suddenly things were making a lot of sense.

Sherlock couldn't stop the feeling of dread building in his chest.

Why did John say that this was his fault? It wasn't. None of this could possibly be John's fault.

"Can I see him?"

' _Yes, John. Come and see me. 'Sherlock_ thought quickly.

"Do you see that as wise? Considering what I have just shown you?"

'_Oh shut up Mycroft. Let John see me.' _Sherlock felt his right hand twitch in anger. He wanted nothing more than to punch his brother around the face.

"I want to see him, Mycroft. I need to see him." John's voice pleaded.

"Very well, but do not mention anything yet. He may get a little distraught."

"Of course – uh – yeh." The reply was awkward, reluctant and a little defeated.

_Interesting_.

There was the sound of footsteps and a door opening.

Sherlock snapped his eyes open, hissing as his eyes were met with a bright white room. Once his eyes had adjusted to the sea of white they lay upon a small dot of pink and blond hair, and then soon after that small blurry dot became a clear picture of his flatmate.

John looked devastated and disgusted.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." John whispered sadly.

Sherlock blinked. His lips still failed him.

His brow pinched together and he patted the space beside him.

John shook his head. "I can't, Sherlock. Not this time."

Sherlock felt as though a solid brick wall had been placed between himself and John.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock felt hurt, wounded, like a bullet had gone straight to his chest and into his heart.

John just stood there, staring, not moving, and not saying anything. His hazel eyes were hazy as though his mind was somewhere else entirely. It wasn't like John to take refuge in his own mind. No. That was Sherlock, not John.

It was unnerving and Sherlock hated it. What had Mycroft shown him? What did John know? Sherlock tried to deduce him but it would seem John had gotten better at hiding things from him. He was suddenly an incredibly hard book to read.

The detective licked his lips and prepared himself to talk. He hadn't done much talking bar to scoff at Mycroft's men but who knew how long he'd been in this strange place – this facility – not talking.

Said facility was obviously government owned. In fact it wouldn't surprise Sherlock if it was his brother himself who owned the place. He found more hatred for his brother boiling in his blood. Before he had been taken here he and John had been snuggling on the sofa and now John looked like a deer caught in headlights. He seemed skittish and disgusted, and angry. All of which were unusual traits for John.

"Please?–"His voice broke and crackled as he had expected.

John's eyes finally zoned in on the present. "Save your voice, Sherlock." He hushed.

Sherlock simply shook his head. "John – please?" He patted the space beside him.

The older man looked at Sherlock with what? Pity? Why did John pity him?

"I can't." John's voice was barely a whisper.

"Why?" Sherlock forced out. The little question sounded desperate despite his best efforts of holding the feeling of desperation that was growing in his chest.

"I did this to you, Sherlock." John stated. "Well, from what Mycroft's shown me I played a part."

"The illness?" Sherlock breathed. "No. Not your fault." He could only manage short, clipped sentences but inside there were a thousand words brimming, and a million questions he wanted to ask his flat mate.

"It's not an illness." John replied bluntly.

"What?" Sherlock's brow pinched together.

"At least not what I'd call an illness." John continued. Tears were shining in his eyes. Sherlock could tell that his friend was holding back his emotions, probably due to the fact that he was in the room. Sherlock felt immensely guilty. It was his fault John was holding his emotions, and it was also evidently his fault that the emotions were there in the first place.

"John, it's ok." Sherlock tried to reassure the distraught man that was stood before him.

"No." John sniffled, "No this is not okay. It's wrong. And – it's killing you."

"John, I -? "

Killing him? Ridiculous. Utter nonsense.

He was fine …. More or less.

John shuffled closer to him for the first time in what felt like hours. "It'll be ok though, Sherlock." He whispered, so soft, so kind. "Mycroft's shown me the stats. They'll be able to proceed to surgery soon. After that you'll make a full recovery."

Sherlock's heart sped up within his chest. Surgery? The dam heart monitor informed John of this as it began to emit sharp, fast beeps.

John's face softened and he finally moved further forwards and onto the bed beside Sherlock albeit a little nervously. "It'll be ok. They'll look after you here." He wrapped his arms around the detective tightly.

"What's wrong with me?" Sherlock much to his shame whimpered and clutched to the army doctor … his army doctor.

"It's complicated, Sherlock." John sighed.

"Define complicated." Sherlock was starting to get frustrated. He hated it when people kept things from him, things he couldn't deduce, and he especially hated when John did it.

He had done it to him before – hiding things. Like when Harry was going through a rough patch and he was under high levels of stress , or when they'd been working on a case for days and hadn't had time to eat and sleep and he would try and hide the fact that he was effected by it.

Now John was doing it again but this time it was so much worse. Probably because he could at least detect sighs of stress, fatigue and hunger. What he couldn't detect was the emotions behind the kindred eyes that were currently boring into him.

"Very complicated, brother."

"Can't we have a bit of privacy?" John asked with a sigh.

"Sorry to interrupt such a – precious moment." From the expression on his brother's face he clearly wasn't sorry at all.

"What do you want?" Sherlock snapped.

"Dear me it would seem that your condition hasn't effected your temper. Then again you always were a difficult child. Always upsetting mummy."

Sherlock didn't even bother justifying that snide comment with a reply. Why waste his breath on Mycroft more than he had to? He knew that this was all a charade that he and his brother put on for the world anyway. It was a ridiculous game and he was currently far from willing to play it.

"Mycroft, please just give me this. Give me this moment with your brother, please." John begged, deploring with his eyes.

Mycroft simply raised an eyebrow and it seemed he was still soaking in the image of his baby brother participating in such physical 'affection'. "Time is of the essence, Doctor Watson. We must discuss with my brother what has happened and what actions we are going to take to clean up this mess. There will plenty of time for you to continue – " He waved his hands in the air in a big sweeping motion. "Whatever you are doing now."

John budged himself closer to Sherlock and tightened his grip on him. "Ok." He replied, sounding utterly defeated.

"This might be easier if you are out of the room. You are rather close to this situation." Mycroft tilted his head to one side, analysing John with his piercing, owl – like eyes.

"Right – yeh. Probably will be easier." John grumbled under his breath. He gave Sherlock one last squeeze of assurance and rolled off of the bed and to his feet. He nodded curtly at Mycroft before taking his leave.

Sherlock didn't miss the tear that rolled out of his eye as he left.

"Why are you blaming John?" Sherlock questioned his brother, his voice accusing and slightly hurt.

Mycroft looked on at Sherlock softly. "I do not blame him but it a fact that he played his part in this." Sherlock frowned. His brother looked genuinely concerned. Now that they were alone the cold, hard mask he usually carried around had been removed.

"A part in what exactly? What the hell is this?"

The elder Holmes pursed his lips together into a thin line and he blew out a loud breath of air. "An experiment."

"On me?"

"Unfortunately."

"What – what did they do to me? At Baskerville?."

Mycroft passed Sherlock the files that would tell him all he needed to know. "Baskerville was an army base, but what went on within its walls went well beyond the usual practices in such places."

"Was?" Sherlock muttered as he began to flicker through the files.

"I made sure the abominable place was destroyed."

"Because of me?"

"Of course, you're my little brother. No one gets to you and gets away with it."

Sherlock blinked. He'd always known Mycroft was overprotective but the fact he destroyed a whole army base because of him really hammered home the fact that he was the exception of Mycroft not caring. His brother really did care.

Sherlock smiled but his smile was wiped off his face almost as soon as it had appeared. "This can't be correct, surely." He scoffed.

"The information is valid and fits in perfectly with your body's current state."

"Men can't get pregnant, Mycroft!"

"They have apparently been working on the technology for quite some time. They experimented on you and Doctor Watson because you began to nose into things that were none of your business."

"Why would they even want to impregnate males!" Sherlock spat, glaring at his brother coldly.

"They didn't. They built the technology to grow organs originally. Useful in terms of warfare. "

"Then why did they experiment on me? Why did they grow a womb inside of me and not two hearts?"

"You pissed them off." Mycroft smirked. "I do believe they thought they were dishing out a fine punishment for you."

"And John? – Oh."

"Yes." Mycroft's smirk grew. "It would appear so."

"I'm impregnated with his child."

"Obviously."

"And you want me to remove the child?"He whispered, eyebrows scrunching together.

"It would be the best course of action."

Sherlock felt a cold wave wash over him. "But is it the right one?"

"I don't see another option, Sherlock."

"I could always keep the child."

"No."

"No?!" Sherlock spat angrily.

"No." His brother repeated. "Surgery is tomorrow. Do try to get some sleep. And for goodness sake, try to stay out of trouble."

"It depends what your definition of trouble is." Sherlock grumbled after his brother was out of hearing range.

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	13. Chapter 13

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own**

**A/N: A huge thanks goes to all those who have reviewed, Favorited, and followed this story. I really appreciate that you take the time to do so. **

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John was pacing the halls outside the room Sherlock was in for what seemed like hours, though was most likely just a few minutes. His thoughts kept on skipping about like popcorn popping into life. His head ached with the knowledge that had been thrust upon him and he could only imagine the hell Sherlock himself was going through.

Impossible. Just impossible. That man. That bloody man.

Sherlock had always been one big impossibility to John. How could someone so beautiful and intelligent be so …damaged. Because that's what Sherlock was. Damaged. John imagined Sherlock hadn't had a good start in life. A bad childhood? Bullying in his teenage years? The drugs that he had been hooked up on before Lestrade had offered him a job? Something had to be behind the fact that he was usually so cold and that he was such an utter arse. Despite being a pompous arse most days John saw a side to him that most people didn't see. His fragile side. It was like beneath the thick layers of cement and brick wall that the young detective put up there was a thin layer of glass just waiting to be shattered. Perhaps that's why Sherlock put those walls up in the first place. He was protecting himself. He acted as though he cared about nothing but the flounce of his curls. Honestly he was so vain. He was like a woman, checking his appearance in the mirrors back home at any opportunity he could find, and smoothing even the finest crease in his shirt.

But now the impossibility scale of Sherlock Holmes had hit the roof. This really did take the biscuit. Even if it wasn't exactly Sherlock's fault something like this could only happen to him, no one else. Strange and peculiar things always did happen to John and Sherlock, as was life that came with living with a man that attracted more danger than anyone John had met in his lifetime. John supposed that's what attracted him to Sherlock in the first place. The danger.

Except this time is different. This isn't the sort of danger that usually sent John's blood pumping with adrenaline. His heart is pounding in his chest for an entirely different reason. Sherlock was in danger. Because of John.

Tears pricked in his eyes at the mere thought of causing Sherlock harm, no matter how accidental and out of John's hands that harm was. Being a medical man it was still sinking in to John's mind that Sherlock was …pregnant. God that sounded so weird. Men simply didn't get pregnant. It wasn't logical. Men's biology was a far cry from women's. Even if men could get pregnant… which they can't (although evidently from Sherlock's results it would appear they could). Even then, their bodies just weren't built to withstand carrying the child to term. The effects were already showing on Sherlock. Thank God Mycroft had investigated into the happenings at Baskerville. The cells would be terminated and Sherlock would make a full recovery.

John shook his head and raked a hand through his hair, his brow creasing into three little lines. He couldn't believe he'd thought of such a horrible and cold thought. Surely that would be something Sherlock would think, or rather say. Sherlock didn't have any social manners and tended to say whatever was in his mind, no matter how rude or cruel his thoughts were. This was a child. A living being. And yet, John thought bitterly, it is nothing but a bunch of cells right now, a parasite that is feeding on Sherlock and draining him dry of life.

The army doctor felt an out of character growl brush past his lips and he almost knocked into Mycroft as he was exiting the room. "Well?" He said sharply, standing to attention, shoulder pinned firmly back, eyes meeting Mycroft's.

The elder Holmes seemed momentarily tired, his body sloping in an almost defeated stance. That soon flickered away and the usually composed and on the ball Mycroft came bouncing back. "He has been informed of what has happened and what actions must occur to rectify this whole situation."

"And?" John asked, impatient to know how the poor man lying in the hospital bed was coping.

"Let's just say that he is as stubborn as ever."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that he does not agree that the … foetus …should be terminated. He wishes for there to be another option."

"He knows there isn't though, right?"

"I told him a firm no. He can't keep it. My little brother probably sees this as a chance to prove science wrong. It is illogical for him to continue. Both he and the foetus will die if something is not done about this."

John swallowed audibly and shuddered at the thought. A world without Sherlock? Well, that wasn't a world at all. John may have been the heart out the duo, and Sherlock the mind, but slowly and surely John's heart had been consumed by the consulting detective. It was to the extent that Sherlock had become his heart. If John ever lost Sherlock in such a way he would lose his heat too, and that scared the hell out of him.

"May I … go and see him?"

Mycroft nodded curtly. "Be patient with him."

"Of course." John didn't need much convincing to rush past Mycroft and into Sherlock's room. Mycroft merely shook his head. John Watson was truly besotted with his brother it would seem, like a puppy was to its master.

John's breath hitched nervously in his throat and got caught there. Sherlock's face was ashen and there were thick white marks running down his cheeks from where Sherlock had evidently briefly given into his emotions and cried. John was stuck between apologizing profusely whilst wrapping Sherlock in a tight hug, and standing frozen to the spot. In the end he decided for the latter, waiting for Sherlock to say or do something that would convey where John currently stood.

"I suppose you agree with him."

John almost jumped out of his skin at the sound of Sherlock's deep baritone voice. He must have been out of it for an awful while as the white tear tracks on Sherlock's face had all but faded now. "I'm sorry?" His voice comes out nothing more than a squeak.

"You agree with him. You think that the only way to solve this whole mess would be terminate the being growing within the womb that has been bestowed upon me."

John wrinkled up his nose and frowned. It sounded so wrong for Sherlock to even be talking about having a womb. John's skin shivered in repulsion. Who could carry out something so utterly … sick? Growing body parts. What's next? Cloning? Aliens? Using humans as test subjects. No, they'd already done the latter. Sherlock was nothing more than a test subject. Sick! This was just so sick! It made John's stomach churn and his blood boil. At least Mycroft had destroyed the dam place.

"John?"

John blinked. "Hmmm?"

"You haven't answered my question."

"Oh." John took a step forwards and gazed at Sherlock with soft eyes. "Sherlock, this thing is killing you."

"Thing?" Sherlock queried, his eyebrows scrunching together almost comically.

"The foetus." John shrugged.

"How can you be so indifferent?"

John felt the uneasiness within his stomach that had be growing with every minute intensify. The tension in the air was almost tangible now. "I'm not. I'm just being sensible."

Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes. "Sensible? How dull."

"Sherlock," John scolded the detective. "This is a serious situation."

"Oh deadly serious." Sherlock hummed. "My body has already been violated once and now it's going to be violated again."

"Sherlock, we just want to get you better." John said softly.

"Then surely there are other options than having a termination."

"Like what?" John asked, exasperated.

"I don't know. You're the doctor!" Sherlock exclaimed, a hint of bitterness to his voice.

"I don't know what to do!" John roared, feeling his blood boiling for a completely different reason to his disgust for this whole situation. "What do you want me to do?! I'm an ex-army doctor not a maternity nurse. And even if I had experience with pregnant women this is different. No man has been pregnant before. There's no books to read about this. There's nothing to go on. Even if I could get you through the pregnancy, which is unlikely considering how weak and frail your body has already become, I'd have to give you a C section."

"You wouldn't have to. I'm sure some other idiotic doctor could deal with all that."

No, John thought rather possessively. I am and shall always be your doctor. No one else gets to touch you.

"What do you want me to do then?" John breathed out heavily, red in the face from shouting.

"I need you to get me out of here."

"Without your brother's knowledge?"

"If necercery, yes."

John swallowed thickly. "How on Earth do you expect me to do that?"

"We have to time it precisely. My brother has a meeting with Lestrade currently. I took the opportunity to steal this from him whilst we were discussing what had happened to me." Sherlock took out a key and swung it around his middle finger. "This is a key to a safe house. Mycroft has hundreds of them, so I doubt he'll miss one little key, do you? I just need you to get me out of here and to the safe house."

"And what about your health?" John questioned, raising an eyebrow. "You can barely walk."

"I looked at those files, as did you. Technically I should be able to carry the child to term if I take lots of rest and take the right vitamins with hormonal injections to make sure all imbalances are corrected, and both I and the child can thrive."

"God, you're serious about this, aren't you?"

"Deadly. You realize how the technology at Baskerville worked?"

"I have a vague idea, yes."

"Then you will know that DNA was taken from the both of us and rearranged within the artificial womb to create the child. Simple enough with such advanced technology."

"Yes," John managed to choke out. "Your point?"

"That this child is a part of you and a part of me. The part which is from myself I do not care for, but the part that is you? I simply refuse to kill. I cannot rid myself of it as it is a part of you. And you happen to be very important to me. Every part of you, including this child."

John felt his heart flutter within his chest. It was the first time Sherlock had ever openly admitted that John was important to him. Of course there was always the understanding that they needed each other and Sherlock was of course a very important person in John's life, but the curly haired brunette had never spoken of John's importance, never even muttered a thank you to him when he did all the domestic things like buying the milk. And now he wanted to keep the dam foetus just because it was a part of John, not a child, no, a foetus. John out right refused to call it a child. In his eyes it was a monster, destroying Sherlock, causing their lives to fall apart.

Which is why he found himself kicking himself for agreeing to help with Sherlock's escape plan, but the smile Sherlock gave him made him feel a little better. It was the first time Sherlock had smiled in so long and it sent a jolt of warmth through John. He just hoped he didn't regret this and that Sherlock's plan would go as smoothly as possible.

John leant over and planted a sloppy kiss on Sherlock's head, without even a second thought, as though it was as natural as buttering toast. "I'll just be a minute." He promised. "I'm going to try and find everything we'll need."

Sherlock raised one of his hands to touch the spot where John had kissed and his smile twitched into his signature smirk. "Thank you." He whispered.

"You're quite welcome, Sherlock, you're quite welcome." John replied quietly as he exited the room. Time to steal some medical supplies, he thought to himself nervously. John was putting everything on the line now. He could lose his doctor's licence for this, his reputation, and if Mycroft had anything to do with it, quite possibly his life too. He was doing this for Sherlock. That was the only thought that kept him going. He wasn't doing this for the foetus, and he was certainly wasn't doing it for his own piece of mind; he was doing this for Sherlock's emotional health and happiness. Right now that's all that mattered to John. That's all that ever matter to John nowadays.

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**Please leave a review. Feedback is always appreciated. x **


	14. Chapter 14

**WARNING: Mpreg**

**A/N: A huge thanks goes to everyone who has reviewed, favourited, or put this story onto their alerts. Your support means the world to me.**

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John felt a bubbly laugh fall from his lips as they arrived at the safe house. He was mainly laughing out of relief. They'd somehow managed to get past the guards and the uncountable amount of security that Mycroft had put on the private hospital Sherlock had been placed in. John had against his better judgement stolen masses of medication and medical supplies. He'd even managed to grab a small, futuristic looking device that he was fairly sure acted as a scanner. It would definitely come in handy if he was going to measure the fetuses progress, or rather Sherlock's progress. John still refused to see the fetus as a living being, but an object. They hadn't been able to go back to 221B to get any clothes or other worldly needs. The only things they had were a few spare clothes for Sherlock and some light snacky food.

John glanced over to Sherlock. He looked frail as ever and his eyes were glazed over. Sherlock's mind was clearly in a distant land. He smiled weakly and gently shook the half asleep detective. "Hey." He whispered, his voice tinted with a feathery softness. "We're here."

Sherlock blinked and turned his face towards John. He looked quite confused for a while but his eyes soon focused on John. "John?" Sherlock's voice is worn and comes out sounding like nails scratching across a blackboard.

John winced at the sound and gently squeezed Sherlock's shoulder. "You ok?" It's a stupid question of course. John knows full well that Sherlock is a far cry from ok and that he would be like that for a long time to come. His heart shuddered in his chest as he realized that if he hadn't given into Sherlock's pleas quite so easily Sherlock would be in surgery by now. This nightmare would all be over. It was too late to turn back now though, besides Sherlock was far too weak to make the return journey so soon. For now they would have to sit tight and hold onto their seatbelts whilst they waited for whatever the future might bring them.

"I will be once we get out of this stuffy cab." Sherlock sniffed loudly. "It's too hot in here."

John hummed in agreement. The taxi ride had been stifling hot and without any windows open it had become almost impossible to breath. Getting out of the cab they had taken and heaving his backpack onto his left shoulder, John moved around the cab to let Sherlock out. He pulled him from his seat carefully and draped the detectives arm over his back so that he was resting firmly on his other shoulder.

Glancing around his surroundings he could see a petite looking cottage. It was clear that it had been painted a light blue color a long time ago, but from years of having battering winds and rains attacking its walls it had turned a dull shade of grey. Ivy clambered up its walls and curled up onto the roof. It was quite a beautiful building despite it being so battered in and weather worn, John mused softly as he and Sherlock moved slowly towards it. It was surrounded by a thick forest. John found himself glad that the area was such a reclusive one. It would mean less prying eyes. Though Sherlock would come off as nothing more than a man who had overeaten he still didn't want to take any chances. If anyone found out the truth then surely Sherlock would be taken away. A shiver ran up his back at the thought and he clutched onto Sherlock a little tighter.

"You're thinking. Please stop. My head's already killing me."

"Sorry." John apologized softly, his tone of voice half amused.

"What were you thinking about? You were obviously thinking pretty hard if I could practically hear your inner monologue."

"I'm thinking that this plan of yours isn't going to work. Mycroft is bound to be on our trail already, you're already incredibly ill, and we're in the middle of bloody nowhere."

"Wrong." Sherlock muttered. "We appear to be in the middle of nowhere. There is in fact a small village not far from here."

"Ok. Perhaps I'll go and check it out once I've gotten you to bed."

Sherlock huffed. "Not tired."

"Sherlock," John scolded. "If this is going to work then you're going to follow my advice. You need sleep, and lots of it."

"Fine."

"There's no fine about it, Sherlock. You either follow my orders or I text Mycroft and get him to send a car to pick us up." John instantly regretted his words as Sherlock shot him a look of awful hurt. "Alright, I'm sorry."John said gently as he guided Sherlock through the front door of the safe house. He hated the feeling of guilt pooling in his gut. He didn't know what was wrong or right anymore. Was he really helping Sherlock? Or was he dragging the detective to an early grave. John swallowed and shook his head, not wanting to dwell on it for too long.

The interior design of the safe house was rather quaint if not a little outdated. The walls were papered with something John's tasteless grandmother would have chosen if she was still alive, a shocking flower print that was mottled with dirt and spider webs. The webs were dotted around to such an extent that John couldn't tell where one started and another one ended. He made a note in the back of his mind to do a bit of spring cleaning. If he and Sherlock were going to spend a long while here then the least he could do was tidy the place up. Besides all the dust gathered in the house wouldn't be good for Sherlock's health.

Further inspection of the house showed there to be a relatively big lounge, again with outdated décor. The two sofas that were situated there looked like they'd seen better days. They were hunched over, their middle sagging from where they had been sat on over the years. There was no TV, which was rather unfortunate as it was likely Sherlock would go stark raving mad with boredom if he was cooped up with nothing to do, and junk TV was usually the only thing that kept the detective complaining of his boredom. There were a lot of books though. They were covered in a thin sheen of dust, just begging to be read. Maybe those would keep him occupied. Hopefully.

Further along the hallway there was a kitchen. It was relatively small with only the basics and oven looked worryingly on its last legs. The tiles on the floor looked like they needed a good scrubbing and the ceiling was once again covered in cobwebs.

Last but not least was the bedroom. The bedroom. There was only one bedroom. It was quite a plain room. It wasn't furnished bar a double bed and a dead pot plant. John bit his lip nervously. "I guess we'll be sharing a bed whilst we stay here." He said with a short bout of nervous laughter.

"Obviously, John. Where else were you planning to sleep? The floor?" Sherlock asked, sounding both amused and exhausted.

"I can if you want me too." John said softly as he led Sherlock to the bed and placed him gently down on it. They were both in need of some rest to reboot. John would venture into the village for supplies later. For now sleep and worrying about Sherlock came first. He smiled as Sherlock gave a slight shake of his head. "I didn't think so." He crawled onto the bed beside Sherlock and smoothed a hand through his curly locks. "Go to sleep. That's an order."

The detective made a soft whining sound and pulled John closer. " John,"

"Hmmm?"

"I care about you."

"I know." John's smile widened as warmth grew in his heart.

"A lot."

"I know." John laughed. "I care about you too. Now go to sleep."

"Mmm. Not tired."

"Idiot." John said fondly, shaking his head as he watched the detective who was presumably 'not tired' fall fast asleep. "My idiot."

"All yours, John." Sherlock mumbled in his sleep.

"Yep. All mine."

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**Please leave a review. **


	15. Chapter 15

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own.**

**A/N: A huge thanks goes to everyone who has been reading/ reviewing/ following/ adding this story to their favorites. Your support means the world to me. **

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The village was a quaint and exceedingly lovely one, John decided as he strolled through it lazily, bags of shopping in hand. What it lacked in size and population it excelled in character. It was like stepping back into ancient times, long before electricity and every day luxury pleasures had even been thought of. The buildings jotted within the village were clearly quite old. Their bricks were starting to crumble and their paint was starting to peel away. Despite that John found them endearing and quite beautiful. In the center of the village stood a church, its spire rising up into the sky, reaching for the nearly almost constant rain clouds. There were a few shops that sold essentials, a small and barely ever open post office, and a pub where most of the locals seemed to gather like a flock of sheep in the winter cold. The locals seemed friendly enough though they had seemed wary of a stranger passing into their land. Some of the intense stares John got from them made his skin crawl and he was only too glad when he left the village and found his way back to the small cottage he and Sherlock were staying in.

"Sherlock! I'm home!" John smiled softly to himself as he heard the familiar grunted reply. "I brought some bread and butter. Would you like some toast?" John asked, popping his head into the bedroom where Sherlock way laying on the bed with an extremely bored expression warped on his features.

"If I must."

"I insist. It's about time you ate something."

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. "I said if I must."

John shook his head in amusement and moved into the kitchen. There was no toaster so he had to grill the toast. He buttered the small snack and placed it on a plate before returning to the sleepy detective.

"Eat."

Sherlock reluctantly took a tentative bite out of the toast. He pulled a face but managed to swallow it with little fuss.

John clambered onto the bed and wrapped an arm around Sherlock's middle, wrinkling up his nose slightly as he felt the small but solid lump beneath his fingers.

"We can't stay here forever, Sherlock. It isn't logical. I've been thinking –"

"Wow. Fascinating. You can think if you put your mind to it." Sherlock's voice came out muffled as he chewed his toast but the sarcasm was still visibly there.

John rolled his eyes and continued. " I've been thinking that once the – err – I mean if the – birth of the –"

"Baby." Sherlock supplied, a frown indented in his brow.

John's face rippled in repulsion. He still couldn't bring himself to call the thing that was growing within Sherlock a baby. "Yes, um, that's what I meant." He said weakly, swallowing audibly after it. "If the birth is successful we won't be able to stay here, nor do I think we should go back to baker street. People will start to talk."

Sherlock gave a brief laugh. "People do little else."

"But Mycroft-"

"Stuff him." Sherlock snorted before falling into a brief bout of laughter. " Actually don't. He makes a fine job of that himself. That man is obsessed with chocolate cake."

John swallowed thickly, his saliva almost making it hard to breath. " Mycroft may stop this whole thing."

Sherlock sniffed the air and made a small hum in the back of his throat. "I'd like to see him try."

"There may be complications…"

"I wouldn't expect this to go smoothly, John." Sherlock looked over at John with soft eyes. "And I realize that you may have to make quite a few tough decisions."

"Yes." John nodded slowly. He hadn't wanted to bring it up but it had to be done. "If there is a risk that I could lose you then I will remove the… the baby. Because I don't want to lose you. I can't. Of course if I can save you both I will, but you are at the top of my priorities. Understood?"

"Yep. You've made yourself loud and clear." Sherlock took one last tentative bite out of the toast before shoving back into John's hands and rolling over, a hand moving to hover over his stomach almost protectively.

"Sherlock it's not-"

"Shut up."

"Should I just go?"

John felt a metaphorical cold wind bite at his heart as a painful silence followed. In Sherlock language that meant a very blunt yes. John crawled from the bed and frowned at the sight of the detective. He looked so small and breakable curled up on that bed. He didn't want to leave Sherlock, not when he was so vulnerable. However John knows better than to mother hen Sherlock whilst he's in a foul mood. Instead John moved into the kitchen and popped the kettle on. The sounds of water boiling in the rusty old kettle drowned out his guilt about leaving Sherlock. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. What had he gotten himself into? Living inside an ancient cottage in the middle of bloody nowhere with a impregnated Sherlock. This wasn't John Watson's idea of fun.

If they survived this, what then? Did Sherlock even want to keep the child if he did manage to carry to full term? He certainly acted like that was the route they were heading down. John was quite frankly surprised by the amount of sentimentality Sherlock was showing, and just how attached he had become of the creation growing within him. Sherlock had never been the parent type. In fact he despised children and took great pleasure in torturing them with his fiery deductions just to have the satisfaction of making them cry.

It made him wonder about what sort of parent Sherlock would be. Would he lose interest within the first five minutes and go back to the days of chasing down criminals and shooting the walls of 221B every time he got bored? Or would he treat his child like he treated John, like they were his sun and he was orbiting them? John couldn't imagine Sherlock settling down to become a father, living a mundane life, and just being normal. Sherlock didn't do normal. Their current situation made that quite obvious, along with the various quirks and oddities the curly haired brunette tended to display.

John chuckled softly as he imagined Sherlock as a father; shirt ruffled and covered in sick stains and god knows what else, a small curly haired toddler cuddled against his chest, heavy bags under his eyes from the sheer exhaustion that came with being a parent.

John's soft chuckle soon died down as the sound of the kettle finishing its cycle snapped him back to reality. A reality where there was no child yet, just a fetus. The potential for a child was there but they still had a long way to go before Sherlock was in the clear. He smiled sadly as he poured two cups of tea. He made his way back to the still sulking detective. "We're going to be ok, Sherlock. Whatever happens. I have no doubt about that. Cus we've been through a hell of a lot together, you and me. This isn't where our story ends."

Sherlock lifted his head slightly and gazed at John with an almost defeated expression, accepting the cup of tea and slowly sipping at it. "And what does the next chapter of our story hold?"

John laid down beside Sherlock and hummed, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly. "I don't know but we've got each other and when we're together we can accomplish anything."

The silent "I love you." Between the soldier and the detective clung in the air thickly but neither man spoke the words. They didn't need to.

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**Tune in next time to see how Sherlock's coping with being pregnant ;) **


	16. Chapter 16

**DISCLIAMER : I do not own.**

**A/N: Why must I write such terrible angsty things? And Woah Mystrade. And thanks for the reviews guys! Keep um coming in! ;)**

**Warning : Mentions of belly stuffing, angst, and well, just to be on the safe side, more angst, oh and if you're not already aware, Mpreg too. :P **

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It had been six months exactly since Sherlock had gone missing, along with his partner in crime, John Watson. Worry settled in Mycroft's stomach in the form of a tight knot. There seemed to be a never ending amount of scenario's and images involving his baby brother that flashed in his mind, usually at the most inconvenient of times, such as in meetings with the PM, and right now as he was trying to sleep.

What had become of his baby brother and that blasted flat mate of his?! Sherlock had been carrying a fetus for goodness sake! That thing was a danger to both Sherlock's health and the Holmes' family reputation. What had they been thinking by keeping it?! It just wasn't logical! Sherlock was probably dead because of that monstrous creation growing within his baby brother.

Mycroft felt his heart twinge with sorrow inside his chest. It would be his fault if Sherlock had died, well, he'd played a part in it. John had too. God dam that man. Had he tricked Sherlock into being sentimental to the growing form within him? He must have done! Sherlock hated children, at least from what Mycroft had observed anyway. In fact Sherlock had always hated children, even when he was one himself he had despised other children and had refused to accept that he was a child, despite that rather silly bee and pirate obsession he had had for a long while…

Mycroft allowed himself to smile slightly as he dipped back into memories of days long gone by, of a tiny Sherlock running around in clothes that were three sizes too big for him, pretending to be a pirate, and forcing bees to walk the plank.

That image soon faded away as Mycroft's brain skipped back to the present.

None of this made sense. Sherlock had been completely knocked out of joint by the suggestion of a termination and John had been unusually cold and on edge. Maybe it was Sherlock's …illness that had caused him to make such an unwise decision.

With each passing day and night without any leads about his baby brother, the homelessness network tight lipped about their beloved detective's whereabouts, and all CTV footage from the day of the disappearance mysteriously destroyed, the knot in Mycroft's stomach was growing a little more. It was so large now that he found it slightly difficult to breath.

Mycroft sighed heavily and slipped from the bed with a soft creak from the mattress, ignoring the whine the soft body he'd been entwined with gave. He padded to the grand pantry kitchen and opened up one of the larger fridges, pulling out a magnificent chocolate cake that one of the cooks had baked earlier. He didn't bother cutting the cake into slices. He just started eating the sugary goodness with his hands, making greedy and almost animalistic sounds, and licking his sticky lips.

It was only when his plat was empty and his stomach had popped out from underneath his pjama top, growling loudly in complaint as it stretched itself to its limits, that Mycroft realized he had scoffed the whole cake. He whined and slid down his chair, clutching the pained organ. He had always had a problem with binge eating and it only worsened when he was worried his baby brother was in possible danger.

Hearing footsteps behind him, he struggled into a sitting position and bit his lip to stop his whimpers of pain. He tugged his pjama top over his stomach but it was no good. Over the past six months Mycroft's diet had gone to hell and as if mocking him his stomach had wriggled out from its hiding spot.

"Oh, Mycroft."

His name was said with such tenderness that it sent shivers down Mycroft's spine. No one had said his name like that for quite some time, well, not since his Mummy had passed away actually. He tilted his head slightly and instantly locked eyes with Gregory's gentle brown ones. As his eyes moved down he realized Gregory was completely naked. He swallowed as he swept over those gorgeous abs. Compared to him Gregory looked like a sex doll, or one of those completely flawless models that you only see in magazines, not in real life. And yet here he was, very real, very naked, standing in Mycroft's kitchen.

"Gregory," Mycroft greeted him curtly with a brief nod, avoiding complete eye contact.

"It's Sherlock again, isn't it? " Gregory let out a soft sigh and dropped to his knees beside Mycroft, placing a hand on his thigh in an attempt to offer comfort. Something Mycroft wasn't all used to getting.

Mycroft folded his arms across his stomach self-consciously, the frown that had settled in his features deepening. He and Gregory had only been in a physical relationship for a couple of months, finding drunken comfort in each other's arms one night as both men missed the insufferable consulting detective terribly. Mycroft was still unsure of what Gregory saw in him, or his rather undesirable body for that matter. "When isn't it Sherlock?" He replied softly.

Greg tutted at Mycroft's protectiveness of his belly and gently forced him to move his arms so her could rub it soothingly to calm the angry gurgles coming from within it. It seemed to work and Greg watched Mycroft visibly relax. Greg smiled widely. God, he loved this version of Mycroft. He was so vulnerable, and he belonged to Greg and no one else. "You can stop worrying. I actually received a text from him, just now. The arrogant sod says he wants a cold case because he's bored."

Mycroft felt tears prick in his eyes but he blinked them away before they could form into anything more. His little brother was alive? And well enough to be asking for cases? Well, thank God. The giant know inside of Mycroft shrank a little and he felt like he could breathe properly for the first time in months. Perhaps John had carried out the termination, being a doctor he had the right medical knowledge. Or maybe Sherlock had lost the child. "Want me to call him?" He heard Gregory ask him through his bubble of relief. Mycroft choked out a small "Yes.". God, he could kiss the man. Smiling like an idiot he did just that.

Greg hummed into the kiss and found himself so very glad for that drunken night of comfort sex they had shared. It had only built on top of the foundation of a genuine connection and their endless flirting throughout the years. "Ok. I'll call him. But firstly I do believe it's bedtime for you." He carefully helped Mycroft up and led him to the bedroom, tucking him into the covers. "We'll travel out to him tomorrow. You need to rest and sleep off that cake." He kissed the tip of Mycroft's head softly and moved out of the room to call Sherlock. The detective was rather tight lipped as to the reason of his disappearance but eventually gave over an address in a village far away, Greg hadn't even heard of it before. Shrugging, he returned to a now sleeping Mycroft and crawled under the covers with him.

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Sherlock groaned and cursed his growing bump. It was so large that he barely bothered wearing a shirt anymore. Nothing fitted him and although he loved John's jumpers he'd soon outgrown those too, even the baggiest of ones. It sat heavy on his lap, almost mocking him. It was now home to a very active Holmes child and it seemed there was no end to the way he/ she would bounce on his bladder and kick out against his already taught and distended stomach as though it was having a full blown tantrum about his home getting decidedly smaller. They were especially active today and he really needed to go to the toilet but there was one problem- he couldn't get out of his chair. He could call for John of course but lately it would seem all they did was argue and Sherlock wasn't in the mood to deal with John's pitying looks, or for another argument that was bound to brew once John saw how utterly helpless he had become.

Over the past six months John had grown no closer to the baby growing inside of Sherlock. His hatred had only seemed to grow. Of course he had taken marvellous care of both Sherlock and the baby. He'd given Sherlock the right hormones and nutrients for the baby, would give massages to Sherlock's aching body, and sometimes joke that the growing form inside of him wanted to grow up to be a gymnast with the amount of times it moved and tumbled around in Sherlock's stomach. The hatred still lay there, like mould growing on the side of an old piece of bread; it was always there and always increasing.

Morning sickness had been the worst. Sherlock had felt like he was throwing up his guts, John had seen a picture of a dying detective, not someone who was merely suffering with something completely natural with the duty of carrying a child. Sherlock didn't miss the glares John gave his stomach, nor did he miss how John would carefully avoid the topic of the baby, or the heavy bags resting underneath John's eyes because of the nightmares he received about the baby murdering Sherlock from the inside out.

No matter what Sherlock did he just couldn't convince John the baby meant no harm. Sherlock sniffled at the thought, his hands clutching his belly, the baby kicking out at him harshly. "You just want to live, don't you?" He choked out. "I wish he could see you as a life and not a thing." The baby kicked out again, this time with a tiny fist, as though in agreement. "Shhhh baby." Sherlock's hushed, his sniffles getting a little louder. "It'll be ok. He'll… he'll come round. Once you're out of me. I – I hope anyway." His heart clenched in his chest. He and John had never felt so far apart from each other. This baby had ripped them apart. It was only now that Sherlock really realized how much he depended on John, emotionally that is. Oh god, here came the tears. They fell thick and heavy and he clutched his stomach tighter as the baby became upset within him too.

He could hear John pottering away at something, probably the oven seeing as it was basically a death trap. That probably meant he was far too busy to hear Sherlock's cries. Good. Sherlock didn't want to be seen as having the same emotional scale as a woman on her period. He barely heard the door open but he didn't miss the two loud gasps, one belonging to detective inspector Lestrade, and the other his brother.

He looked up with tear filled eyes and blinked.

"I, err, got a cold case for ya." Sherlock watched as the D.I visibly paled.

"Cold case?" Sherlock hummed. He didn't remember – oh, yes he did. Darn pregnancy always made him forgetful.

"You kept it then." Sherlock looked up at his brother. Whatever smart remark he wanted to retort with died in his throat. His brother looked so disappointed in him.

Sherlock choked out an "obviously." Before shedding more tears, his giant belly jiggling with each sob he made.

Mycroft instantly melted. His baby brother was vulnerable right now. He needed him. Differences put to one side for once, Mycroft walked over to Sherlock, ignoring a shocked Gregory who was currently gaping like a fish. He knelt down beside him and gently took his head into his hands. "It is going to be alright, Sherlock, I assure you." Sherlock looked at him with bright blue eyes, his face a pure picture of terror.

"Sherlock – what's going – Jesus!" John had finally heard Sherlock's cries. He hadn't expected an emotional Sherlock cradled in Mycroft's arms, or a gaping Lestrade either. "What's wrong?" His eye brows knitted together. "Is it the baby?"

"Oh, why would you care?!" Sherlock screamed. "You haven't ever cared! Which is funny because right before all this happened you were all about the caring, weren't you, John? "

John felt a lump rise in his throat. "Sherlock – I –" Had he really been so cold towards Sherlock? Obviously by how upset Sherlock was.

Sherlock suddenly cried out in pain. The baby's head was pressed harshly against his stomach and its tiny arms were stretching out.

Mycroft frowned and placed a gentle hand over the bump, for the first time acknowledging the thing inside his brother as alive. "What's wrong, brother dear?"

"The baby – it's coming –" Sherlock bit down hard on his lower lip.

John raked a hand through his hair and a low gasp left his lips. "It's too early – it's – what do I do?!" He found all his medical knowledge leaving his brain in a flurry. He'd been so busy avoiding the subject of the baby that he'd barely thought about delivering it. And it was three months early! God, would it even survive? Sherlock would be devastated if it didn't and though John wouldn't admit it now … a part of him would be devastated too. He was more attached to the baby than he let on. From the moment he'd felt the baby kick for the first time he'd grown attached. He just hadn't let Sherlock see it because he was still so worried about things going wrong … about Sherlock getting frailer and about him losing either Sherlock or the baby, or even both.

Now his worst nightmare was coming true.

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**Oh no's, whatever is John to do? Dun, dun, dun ...**


	17. Chapter 17

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own.**

**A/N: Well, this is the end my dear friends. I hope you enjoy this last chapter. Thank you for everyone who has left reviews so far. **

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Blood, so much blood. It's everywhere. The thick, crimson liquid is soaking into John's unsteady hands, it's all over the previously pristine bed sheets, and it's coating the unnaturally lifeless detective sprawled out upon them.

John is aware of two sets of eyes watching his every move. Mycroft was studying him, scrutinizing him, and pinpointing the cause of his baby brother's pain all on John. The guilt that had been building inside the ex-army doctors' gut over the past six months was now burning inside of him like a bonfire on fireworks night, smoking and spitting, and slowly building into an impressive glow. Because Mycroft's eyes are enough to know that this is John's entire fault, that he shouldn't have gone along with Sherlock's ridiculous plan to keep the child, that he was the one at fault. Lestrade is gazing on at the scene as though it's one of the most horrific murders he's ever witnessed. John has no choice but to ignore them, to go into his own little bubble whilst he desperately tries to save both Sherlock, and if possible the premature baby. He doesn't know whether he'd be able to live with himself if he didn't save Sherlock, not that Mycroft would likely allow him to live, not if his only remaining family had died because of John's stupidity.

His scalpel slid into the far too pale flesh with as much precision as he can make with his shaking and currently useless hands. He knows the anatomy of the human body like the back the of his hand but it still takes him awhile to find the right spot for the artificial womb. It's not like a woman's womb. It's significantly smaller. His hands shook further as her opened Sherlock up, pulling back layers of thick muscle, and caught sight of an alien creature. No, his mind informed him sharply, this is not an alien, this is a human being and you have ignored them for far too long. He pulled out the miniature human. The tiny creature's skin is a red sort of color, not the healthy pink a baby should be. That was probably due to it being premature, not because it wasn't a … normal child.

Everything is in slow motion now. He does a quick medical check-up on the fragile form in his hands, notes the way its chest is heaving up and down as though it is struggling for breath, and hurriedly placed it in an incubator that Sherlock had helped design and John had made from scratch, attaching it to all sorts of wires just to keep it alive. It was funny how Sherlock had seemingly adapted to their situation as though he was dealing with some sort of scientific experiment, but had also stayed remarkably attached to the child. John had been rather amused by how Sherlock recorded every little change in his body in a journal, a smug grin on his face as he chattered on about it being an amazing scientific breakthrough. But really, truly, John didn't quite believe that Sherlock had decided to keep the child out of wanting to complete an once in a life time experiment, and that maybe Sherlock was really attached to it. John didn't see how, seeing as the baby had been making him weaker and had been physically hurting him. Even now John can't quite see why Sherlock's attached to the thing –yes, in his mind it's still a thing. He barely registered the sex of the child. It doesn't seem important now, right now all that is important is the curly haired man slowly bleeding out.

His hands, slick with blood, made fast work of stopping the bleeding, cleaning the wound and stitching him up. It seemed to take far too long but once he's done and he steps back to admire his work he's satisfied that he hasn't made a complete botch job of things. He raced to attach Sherlock to a bag of blood (He had been prepared for every eventuality, medical wise at least.) Once Sherlock was attached and the blood began dripping into his system it was a simple matter of cleaning the sheets and the man on them of the blood.

He glanced up at Mycroft and Lestrade through teary eyes and gave them a fake smile of reassurance, as a doctor he was practised in doing so. "Help me." He begged softly, his voice cracking as though an immense pressure was bearing down on it.

Lestrade was the first one to move. He still looked like he was in shock about the whole Sherlock and baby thing but he seemed more concerned than anything. "Will he be ok now?" He asked gently, his soft brown eyes studying the brutal scene on the bed. It looked like Sherlock had been in a fight with a blender and had lost.

"He should be. Just a matter of time. We need to clean him up." John wet his lips slightly, his mouth suddenly devoid of words.

"And the kid? What about them? I presume that was a kid I just saw and this isn't some sort of pissing joke on my part. I mean how the hell did this happen?"

"It's a long story." Mycroft spoke for John, walking cautiously to the homemade incubator, his eyes inspecting the life inside of it. "And this is no joke, not by far. I shall explain later. For now I suggest you do exactly as John tells you to." Mycroft peered closer at the baby on the other side of the warm glass, his nose pressed close against it. "It's a boy." He stated, his tone neither impressed or unimpressed, merely neutral.

John swallowed. A boy? A son. He glanced guiltily over to the incubator. "He'll be in there till he's stronger." John said, only realizing a second later that that was blindingly obvious. He pulled the dirty sheet off from underneath Sherlock with the help of Lestrade, turning his gaze away from Mycroft and the baby.

"And after it no longer needs to be attained in such a manner am I under the understanding that you and Sherlock will be bringing the child up?"

John let the silence roll out for couple of minutes as he dabbed a cloth over the now mostly flat plain of Sherlock's stomach, mopping up the dried blood and revealing the true pale cream colour underneath. "We hadn't given it much thought." Well, actually that was a lie. Sherlock had tried to bring up the topic of the child's future a numerous amount of times, only for John to knock him back. It wasn't that John wasn't interested in providing for a child that was his, not at all. He was a man of reasonability. It was just at the time John had barely believed the baby would make it out alive, and had barely seen it as a living being. Even now he found it hard to believe that his flesh and blood was right there – barely alive- fighting for life.

"I could help out." Mycroft said, his tone so soft that it took a while for John's brain to associate the voice with the Elder Holmes.

"Um – I don't think – " Mycroft sent him a glare that told him not to argue and he instantly shut his trap.

"Right, all clean." Lestrade sighed tiredly. This was not how he imagined today going at all. He'd imagined a day of dealing with Sherlock, yes, but not quite like this. He glanced over to his lover. He looked enthralled by the baby inside.

"So, Sherlock was ill, huh?" He cocked an eyebrow, shaking his head in disbelief.

" It was better to say that than knocked up with his flatmate's offspring." Mycroft scoffed, but there was a definite smile on his lips as he watched the baby.

"Yeh, alright." John huffed. "There's really no need to rub it in."

Mycroft seemed to study John for a while. John suddenly felt a lot like an ant underneath a magnifying glass. He seemed to come to a conclusion about John as his face visibly softened. "Shall I leave you alone to tend to Sherlock and the child? I highly doubt he will be thankful of my presence when he awakes. And I think you have quite a few things to discuss with him."

"Yeh, um, we have a lot we need to discuss."

"You a couple now then?" Lestrade asked, a smirk that seemed far too smug slapped was slapped across his face.

"What? No! I'm not gay." The same old line tumbled from John's lips. It was almost as much a reflex as sneezing and blinking was to him. Mycroft scoffed loudly. Lestrade suddenly seemed quite uncomfortable. "Not – not that there's anything wrong with being gay." He quickly back tracked, acknowledging the heated looks Mycroft and Lestrade were sending each other. Had he said something offensive? Oh – "Oh." John repeated out loud. "Are you two err –"

"We are, yes." It was Mycroft who answered. Lestrade just gave a dumbfounded nod. "And I suggest that you stop dillydallying and get down to business with my brother. Either that or stop dancing around each other like two love struck teenagers."

John stared after the fast retreating Elder Holmes and Lestrade, mouth agape at his words. His eyes soon snapped back to the sleeping Sherlock and his heart jumped up into his throat, making it almost impossible to breath. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I – the fact that he arrived too early was my fault. I neglected your emotional well-being. I was here as a doctor for you, but not as a friend." He took a shaky breath and walked over to Sherlock. He pushed a hand through the slightly sweaty curls pooling over his forehead. "And I'm truly sorry for that. I'll be a better – " He swallowed. "Friend – oh, what am I saying?" He leant in further and placed a kiss on the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "I'm in love with you, Sherlock." He whispered softly, not wanting Mycroft or Lestrade to hear him. "I'm hopelessly in love with ya. I must be. I don't think I've ever been so scared of losing someone." Sherlock snored in response.

Smiling sadly John walked over to the incubator. "We have a son." He said to the sleeping detective. "He doesn't look like much right now. But he'll get there." He pushed a hand up against the glass and stared at the impossible child inside. "I'm sorry little one." He choked on a sob. "I should have been there for you. "I just – I'm so sorry. I'm here for you now. I'm not leaving. " He dragged up a chair, sitting half way between his sleeping child and his sleeping Sherlock. His. Yes, he thought to himself, they're all mine.

* * *

A few months later...

* * *

"We're home." John felt a soft sigh escape his lips as he entered 221B, the familiar smell of Mrs Hudson making coffee hitting them as they entered the flat.

"Yes, yes we are." Sherlock said from behind him.

John turned and laughed at the sight of the detective cradling their sleeping baby in his arms. He looked like an entire different person to the man John had first met. He looked tired and not as composed as before, but overall he looked blissfully happy. "You know," He mused. "We really need to give him a name."

"Hmmm. Names are dull."

John raised an exasperated eyebrow. "He needs a name."

"Hamish." Sherlock said decisively.

John stared at Sherlock, his eyebrow going up further. "After my middle name?"

"Well, obviously. It's the perfect solution for the whole name thing." Sherlock's face was so deadly serious that John couldn't help but falling into a fit of giggles. "What?" He huffed in response to John's giggles, looking not entirely impressed.

"It's just, I dunno, you."

"Me?"

"You." John shuffled forwards and grabbed hold of Sherlock's face.

"John, what are you –" John cut off the rest of Sherlock's sentence with a soft kiss. He hummed loudly, starting off cautiously as kissing men wasn't exactly his area, but he soon pressed more firmly into the kiss. Sherlock met him eagerly, prying open John's lips to explore further. They broke apart when they heard a small gurgle of protest from Hamish. Sherlock was panting heavily, eyes wide, studying John like he was the most interesting case he'd ever come across. "What was that?"

John shrugged and bit his lower lip. "It was a kiss. Didn't you like it?"

"Did I- ? Yes. I did rather enjoy it. But that's beside the point. When?"

"When did I start to see you in a, um, romantic light?"

"Yes. It's not as if you showed much interest whilst I was pregnant with Hamish."

"I was an idiot. The fact is I didn't really know how to handle what had happened. And there were so many risks you were taking. I was terrified of losing you. I just threw myself into the medical mechanics of it all. I made sure you had all the nutrients and hormones in place to at least keep you stable. I was so focussed on that that I didn't realize I was in love with you." John's eyes were starting to swill with tears. His heart was bobbing in his chest as he feared rejection. He closed his eyes and waited for Sherlock to get angry or to scoff at him. What he received was another kiss.

"I love you too, Idiot."

"Come on. Let's take a nap." John gingerly took Sherlock's hand and led him to his bedroom. They curled up together, baby Hamish nestled between them, sleeping peacefully side by side. John smiled in his sleep, Hamish's tiny hand holding one of his fingers hostage. There was space for one more in his heart.

* * *

**I hope you enjoyed this little journey I took you on. As always reviews are greatly appreciated. **


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